An Evil Spirit Out of the West

Chapter 18

Horemheb and Rameses hunted Amun and all his followers in the temples and along the avenues and streets of Thebes: not even private tombs were safe. I quietly laughed at the stories of how Akhenaten’s agents broke the seals of sepulchres and went in to wipe out the picture of a goose, sacred to Amun, from paintings on the wall. In the City of the Aten Meryre and the rest of the toadies, those sanctimonious hypocrites, rose to the occasion only too eager to prove their subservience and unquestioned loyalty. Houses, shops and warehouses were raided, statuettes of any other god seized and destroyed. Those who had offended the majesty of the Aten were publicly ridiculed, being placed on donkeys, their faces towards the tails and paraded through the streets. It was now a crime in the City of the Aten to praise the wrong god, to honour some other deity. A growing restlessness manifested itself, not helped by shooting stars scrawling the heavens at night and heartchilling rumours about a hideous pestilence which had broken out across Sinai.

I continued my hunt for the Sekhmets. One question still puzzled me. I knew who they were and had a hardening suspicion about who had hired them. I had reached the conclusion that they worked for one person and one person alone, so how had Sobeck’s spies come to know that someone was searching for the Sekhmets along the alleyways and the streets of Thebes? Maybe the person responsible for the assassins had deliberately spread the rumour about Sekhmets being hired in order to lay the blame at the door of Amun — which Akhenaten had been only too happy to accept. I dared not trust any of my agents or spies, nor could I inform Djarka, so I went out at night to watch the house myself.

My long vigil proved my suspicions were correct. So, when Makhre and Nekmet invited Djarka and myself to a sumptuous meal of clover and fish served in a special sauce, I eagerly accepted. Their eating-house had been closed for the evening, and Makhre and Nekmet acted as both our hosts and servants. We ate on the flat roof of the house overlooking an elegant courtyard. A small fountain splashed and countless flower baskets sent up their own fragrance to mingle with the sweetness from the pots of frankincense and cassia arranged in the shadow of the parapet along the roof terrace. The meats were delicious, the sauce fresh and tasty to the palate, the bread sweet and soft, laced with carob seeds and a dash of honey whilst the wine was the richest from the black soil of Canaan. It was a beautiful evening with the sky changing colour and, as the sun set, the eastern cliffs dazzled in its dying rays. I was careful of what I ate and drank as I studied this precious pair: Makhre in his white robes, head and face gleaming with perfumed oil, Nekmet soft-skinned and doe-eyed, resplendent in her pleated robes and delicate jewellery. Even then I was arrogant; I did not know the full truth, the hideous secret which would eventually bring so many dreams crashing down. At that moment in time I was only concerned with Djarka and his love for this elegant young woman. Eventually I decided to confront her. As Nekmet served me a dish of lettuce garnished with oil and herbs, Djarka was teasing her about flirting with me. Makhre was laughing. I could take no more. Instead of accepting the bowl I grasped her wrist so tightly she winced.

‘You are from Akhmin?’

‘No, we’re not,’ Makhre scoffed but his eyes became watchful.

‘But you told Djarka the other day that you were?’

‘What?’ Makhre turned to his daughter. She shook her head.

‘But you did.’ Djarka, now alarmed, cradled his cup, not knowing who to stare at. I let go of Nekmet’s hand.

‘You are from Akhmin,’ I repeated. ‘You told Djarka, Nekmet, that you were born there. I am sure it was a slip. If you were there, so were your mother and father. So why do you lie now?’

The banquet was over. Makhre and Nekmet’s faces betrayed them. For the first time ever they had been confronted with their true identity.

‘You are from Akhmin,’ I repeated. ‘For all I know you may well be related to God’s Father Ay, close friend of Pharaoh. So why do you come wandering into the City of the Aten as if you know no one? Why do you have to cultivate my lieutenant Djarka? Gain an entry to the palace when God’s Father Ay could have achieved that with a nod of his head?’

‘You are mistaken,’ Makhre flustered. ‘My lord Mahu, you are truly mistaken. I do not know God’s Father Ay. I have seen him from afar. I …’

‘You are a liar! You do not speak with true voice because you do not know the truth.’

‘Mahu!’ Djarka warned.

‘I have watched this house myself. Late at night I have seen God’s Father Ay slip in and out. So, why are you here, Makhre and Nekmet? Whom are you hunting? Me? Djarka? Or the Divine One himself?’

Nekmet picked up a slice of pomegranate. She chewed on it carefully, using this to glance sideways at her father.

‘You call yourself the Sekhmets,’ I continued. ‘A family of assassins. You come from Akhmin. You work for one person only, the lord Ay. Years ago, Makhre, it was you and your wife, but she died. Now it’s you and your beautiful daughter. You slaughtered certain people in Thebes just before the Divine One left that city. You advertised your slayings so people thought that it was business rivals or enemies settling grudges. However, all your victims in Thebes had one thing in common: they were enemies of Ay. The same is true of your other prey in the cities along the Nile.’

Some of what I said was true, the rest mere conjecture.

‘You were brought here by lord Ay,’ I continued. ‘We are not your victims but, through us, particularly Djarka, you have gained admission to the palace.’

‘But we’ve been there,’ Nekmet protested. ‘We did no harm!’

‘Of course not.’ I pushed the wine-cup away. ‘A true assassin must first get himself accepted, become part of the normal life, the regular routine. Moreover, there is no hurry. Whoever your victim was, you were not to strike until lord Ay gave you the order.’

‘But do you have proof?’ Makhre had recovered his wits.

‘Don’t sit there and fence with me as if we are children with sticks,’ I snarled. ‘I’ll have this house searched; I am sure I will find what I have to.’

‘And where are your police?’ Nekmet asked.

‘You know full well,’ I retorted, ‘no one else knows. The Divine One thinks the Sekhmets have been apprehended and executed. However, if he discovered the true assassins were patronised, given access to the palace by his own Lieutenant of Police, Djarka would also feel his wrath.’

‘Let us go to see the lord Ay,’ Makhre offered.

‘He’ll deny it,’ I replied. ‘He’ll call me mad or insane, but the damage will be done. He’ll arrange for you to disappear and Djarka will continue to live under the shadow of suspicion.’

‘I really think …’ Makhre pushed the table back. As he made to get up, he flexed his upper arm, so when he struck, I was waiting. The knife secretly clutched in his hand aimed for my throat even as Nekmet lunged at Djarka with a dagger she, too, had concealed. Djarka was faster than I, pushing the table into Nekmet’s stomach, even as Makhre’s knife skimmed the side of my neck. I lunged back with my own knife, cutting and slashing into his exposed throat, dragging the knife round and slicing through the soft part under his chin. He fell back against the cushions, a look of surprise on his face; blood pumping out of his mouth and the jagged gash in his neck. He was shaking like a man with a fever, a hideous sound coming from his lips.

I looked to my right. Djarka had his arm around the back of Nekmet’s head, pushing her even further onto the dagger thrust into her upper belly; her lips were half-open, eyelids fluttering as if she wanted to speak or kiss him. Djarka’s face was a hideous mask, a look of deep pity yet he would not let go of her head or the knife, his eyes only a few inches from hers. Eventually her face went slack, shoulders drooping. Makhre, too, fell quiet, face to one side, his entire chest and groin sopping with blood. I pulled Djarka away, allowing Nekmet’s corpse to fall against the cushions. Then I refilled his cup and my own. While I sat and drank, Djarka sobbed into his hands, one of the most heartwrenching scenes I have ever witnessed. He must have sat for an hour, those two corpses staring at us with their empty, glassy gaze. Birds swooped over the house, the night came, dark and soft as velvet. I kept sipping at the cup. At last Djarka wiped his tears away.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he accused.

In the light of the oil lamps my young friend had aged. His face had lost that olive smoothness, his eyes were red-rimmed; furrows marked either side of his mouth. He had the look of a stricken old man.

‘If I had told you, Djarka, you would not have believed me. I know you. You would have challenged Nekmet. They would have either killed you, lied or fled.’

‘Why?’ Djarka asked. ‘Why did she lie?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll kill Ay,’ Djarka threatened.

‘No, you won’t.’ I clambered to my feet, my legs tense and hard. ‘Come on, Djarka, we have work to do.’

At first I thought he would refuse but Djarka became impatient to discover more evidence, hoping to prove that I was wrong. Yet he knew the truth. Even as he searched he conceded that Makhre and Nekmet had confessed their own guilt.

‘They would have killed us,’ I declared, ‘and taken our corpses out to the Red Lands.’

We searched that house from cellar to the roof. At first we found nothing except indications that Makhre and his daughter had travelled the length and breadth of the kingdom. They possessed considerable wealth. I went down to the cellar, specially constructed to store wine and other goods which had to be kept cool. The cellar was partitioned by a plaster wall. I examined this carefully, removing the makeshift door. I studied the lintels.

‘This was only meant to be a partition,’ I told Djarka, ‘yet it’s at least a yard wide on either side.’ The dividing wall was of wooden boards covered by a thick plaster; the sides on which the door had been fastened consisted of specially hewn beams. We took these away, and discovered that each side of the partition was, in fact, a narrow secret room. Inside we found our proof: a small coffer with medallions and amulets displaying the lion-headed Sekhmet, Syrian bows, three quivers of arrows, swords, daggers, and writing trays. More importantly, the cache held a carefully contrived and beautifully fashioned medicine chest consisting of jars and pots, all sealed and neatly tagged. We brought these out into the light of the oil lamps.

‘I am no physician,’ I declared, ‘but I suspect these are poisons and potions, enough to kill an entire village.’

We also found documents, all officially sealed, and providing different names and details, as well as pots of paints, wigs, and articles of clothing so Makhre and Nekmet could disguise themselves. Small pouches of gold and silver and a casket of precious stones were also stored there.

‘They were always ready for flight,’ I declared. ‘Prepared to move on once their task was done.’

By now Djarka was coldly composed. We returned to the roof and those corpses lying in pools of blood, the flies already gathering.

‘What shall we do?’ Djarka asked.

‘How many people knew we were to be their guests?’

Djarka, his face still tear-stained, shook his head. I ordered him to help. We took the two corpses, wrapping them in sheepskin cloths and tying them securely with cord, then cleared out the secret rooms and placed the two corpses inside. I found a leather bag and gathered up most of the valuables. We drew buckets of water from the fountain and cleared away all signs of our struggle then waited until dawn to study the results of our handiwork. The rooftop was now like any other. In the kitchen we washed the platters and cups in bowls of water and, going down to the cellar, replaced the heavy beams and rehung the door. I checked the house most carefully. Only when satisfied did we leave.

‘Why?’ Djarka asked, as we slipped through the streets back into the central part of the city. ‘Why did we leave it like that?’

‘It’s the only way,’ I retorted. ‘I do not trust Akhenaten’s moods nor Nefertiti’s furious outbursts. The finger of suspicion would be pointed at you.’

Once home, Djarka stripped himself, throwing all his clothes at me.

‘Burn them,’ he called over his shoulder.

He went out into one of the courtyards, washed himself and returned to his chamber. I followed him up. He was preparing for a journey, marching sandals on his feet, a set of leather panniers already packed. Across his shoulder hung a bow and quiver of arrows, a dagger thrust into his belt, a staff in one hand.

‘Djarka?’ I asked.

‘I will leave lord Ay for the time being,’ he muttered and would say no more. He clasped my hand and disappeared. He was gone forty days and forty nights out in the Red Lands. When he returned, his face was blackened by the sun, there were streaks of grey in his hair, and his body and face were hard. He talked little about where he had been but returned to his duties.

During his absence I was busy. I returned to the assassins’ house to ensure everything was well. Of course, questions were asked. I circulated the story about how the owner and his daughter had left in a hurry. Ay had no choice but to co-operate with such a tale, even though he guessed the truth. I confronted him alone in a garden at the palace. At first he acted all diffident, dismissing my accusations with a flutter of his fingers. I told him exactly what had happened and where the corpses of his assassins were hidden.

‘I leave it to you, God’s Father,’ I warned, ‘to take their bodies out for honourable burial. I don’t think you will.’

‘They will eventually smell,’ Ay countered coolly though he was visibly anxious about any eavesdropper or servant coming too close. ‘Or, there again, their corpses are sealed in …’

‘Why did you hire them,’ I asked, ‘and for whom?’

Ay walked away to sniff at some flower. He plucked this and came back twirling it in his fingers, moving his head and neck as if to relieve the tension in his shoulders.

‘My lord Ay,’ I whispered hoarsely, ‘you called me your friend, your ally?’

Ay lifted his head, raising the flower to his nose but using it to mask his lips. ‘Look into my eyes, Mahu. What do you see?’

‘Fear,’ I replied.

‘And fear it is. Soon you shall see the reason why.’

‘Was that the only way?’ I asked.

‘It’s over, Mahu.’ He took the flower away. He gestured with his hand. ‘This is all over. It’s gone wrong. The wine doesn’t taste so sweet or the food so delicious. We were to introduce the worship of the Aten, not go hunting for people who draw geese on the walls of their tombs or keep a statue of Isis in a cupboard. I never dreamed Thebes would be left to rot or our allies across Sinai go down in the dust because we would not help them. Worse still …’ He shook his head. ‘No.’ He threw the flower away. ‘You will see! The Sekhmets were an easy answer.’

Ay refused to tell me any more and that’s the nearest he ever came to a full confession.

The twelfth year of Akhenaten’s reign was now upon us and the King became immersed in celebrating his great jubilee, the anniversary of his coronation. Envoys from other kingdoms were invited to the City of Aten. There was feasting and processions, troops marching backwards and forwards, military displays, festivals and gift-giving. This was a last blaze of light before the darkness. Akhenaten performed his public office with all the majesty he could muster. Dressed in the glorious paraphernalia of Pharaoh, he entertained envoys from Kush, Canaan, Libya as well as ambassadors of the Mitanni and the Hittites. He lectured them on the virtues of the Aten, he and Nefertiti portraying themselves as the dazzling incarnation of their god. This was only a mask. During the ceremonies he showed a marked coldness towards his wife. I had been so busy on my own affairs I hadn’t reflected on how, in the previous months, Akhenaten had often absented himself whilst Lady Khiya had virtually vanished from the court.

All this was the precursor of the storm. The tempest broke when the jubilee festival was over and Akhenaten and Nefertiti presided over a meeting of the Royal Circle. The only people invited were the Devout and the children of the Kap. It began in the usual perfunctory way. Meryre intoned a prayer to the Aten which went on and on. Horemheb sat beating a tattoo on his knee whilst Rameses pretended to doze. Everyone else was subdued. The great persecution of Amun was now complete, leaving a sour taste in people’s mouths. Of course Pentju was not there, being banished from Nefertiti’s presence. I’d glimpsed his face three days previously and wondered why he looked so secretive, eyes red-rimmed as if he had been crying. The meeting was also attended by three of Akhenaten’s eldest daughters, Meketaten, Meritaten and Ankhespaaten. The twins were comely enough but Ankhespaaten was the one with vigour and life, a beautiful young girl probably no more than ten summers old. She had inherited some of her mother’s seductive, alluring beauty, eyes full of expression, her movements exquisitely feminine. Even at that early age she displayed her body, clothed in perfumed robes, to catch and draw the attention of men. All three daughters kneeled on cushions at Nefertiti’s feet. The twins were subdued but Ankhespaaten, a glorious fillet of gold binding her hair, stared imperiously around, eyes constantly moving, a faint smile on those lovely lips.

When Meryre ended his boring litany Akhenaten remained seated, hands on the arms of the throne, head down. On this occasion he wore no crown, simply a band of gold with a jewelled uraeus in the centre. He lifted his head. Nefertiti went to touch his hand, a common gesture. Akhenaten thrust this away. Nefertiti ignored the insult, no reaction except for a slight tilt of her head. She stared across at me, a stricken look. I realised how the years had passed; she had aged, her cheeks no longer so smooth, her body slightly plump.

‘Your Majesty.’ Tutu, from where he sat opposite the King, bowed. ‘Your Majesty has words for us.’

Akhenaten’s hand went across his face.

‘You all must have …’ he began.

I remember those words so well, for they unleashed the storm.

‘You all must have wondered what will happen when I go back to my Father to be reunited with the One across the Far Horizon, Who will sit here and wear the Crown of Egypt? Who will hold the flail and rod? Who will intercede for you’ — he lifted his hands as if in prayer — ‘with me and my Father?’

Nefertiti, shocked, turned her face. The conventional chatter and gossip of the court was that Akhenaten’s eldest daughter would succeed him. Nefertiti made a strange move with her hands as if courtiers were standing too close to her and she wanted them to move away.

‘My lord, you have a daughter,’ Tutu said, puzzled.

‘And now I have a son.’ Akhenaten’s declaration rang through the chamber.

‘My lord!’ Tutu gasped.

‘I have a son,’ Akhenaten repeated. ‘Flesh of my flesh, body of my body. The Prince Tutankhaten, the offspring of Princess Khiya the Beloved! Nor is he the first …’

I shall never know why Akhenaten chose that time and place to make his declaration. Perhaps all the resentment and disappointment had curdled together to come pouring out.

‘He is not the first child,’ Akhenaten continued. ‘We also had a daughter who died, born prematurely. The Prince, however, is a vigorous child. He is my successor, the blessed seed of the Aten, the breath of God. He is my heir and shall be proclaimed as my heir.’

The Royal Circle was now in consternation. I had to admire Akhenaten’s cunning even as I grieved at Nefertiti’s public humiliation. She had made a hideous mistake. Khiya had become a Royal Ornament, a flunky of the court, someone who was seen and patronised. Like the rest, Nefertiti had failed to observe the Mitanni Princess’s long absences, her periods of seclusion in the rambling palaces of the Aten. An easy achievement, for who would seek Khiya the Monkey out? She was not liked by Nefertiti and so why should any power-hungry courtier wish to associate with her? Except of course Pentju … a man of nimble wits and cunning heart. He must have had a hand in this but, at the time, I sat like the rest in stunned silence. The look on Nefertiti’s face was heartwrenching: her manner wild-eyed and confused. The glory of Egypt, the necklaces, crowns and jewellery which adorned her no longer enhanced her beauty or her status but seemed to emphasise the mockery. Some of the Royal Circle moved to congratulate Akhenaten. Nefertiti suddenly stood up. She moved the children aside and knelt on the cushions before Akhenaten, her back to us.

‘My lord,’ her voice was strong, ‘my lord, I beseech you.’ Akhenaten was forced to look at her. ‘I am your Queen, your Great Wife. Surely the offspring of a Mitanni monkey will never wear the Double Crown?’

Akhenaten remained silent, face tense, body taut. He had to confront the fury of Nefertiti. She now moved forward; kneeling upright, she placed her hands on his knees, the classic pose of a supplicant.

‘I am your Queen, your wife.’

My heart wept at the pleading in her voice.

‘I have spoken. What Pharaoh has said,’ Akhenaten’s voice carried through the chamber, ‘will be done!’

Nefertiti remained kneeling, though she withdrew her hands.

‘Why, my lord? Why now? Why here? Could you not have told me in the privacy of our chamber?’

‘I have spoken,’ Akhenaten replied. ‘My will is manifest. My will shall be done!’

His twin daughters were now crying, sobbing quietly, moving to kneel beside their mother. Ankhespaaten, however, turned to face us, a beautiful little thing. She sat back on her heels, hands on her thighs and gazed coolly round as if she wanted to remember each of our faces.

‘You have betrayed me!’ Nefertiti sprang to her feet and moved away, half-facing her husband. She made her appeal to the Royal Circle but what comfort would she find there?

‘You have betrayed me,’ she repeated.

‘The Lady Khiya was the Divine One’s loyal rightful wife,’ Tutu spoke up. Beside him Meryre was nodding vigorously.

‘Silence!’ Nefertiti screamed.

If it hadn’t been for Ay’s outstretched hand she would have advanced threateningly on the sycophantic Chamberlain. She turned back on her husband. ‘You have betrayed me! You swore an oath!’

Akhenaten lifted his hand as a sign for silence. Nefertiti refused to concede.

‘You swore an oath, a great oath that would last for ever. Only our children, the flesh of the Sun, would inherit the Double Crown!’

‘Betrayed?’ Akhenaten now changed tack. ‘You talk of betrayal, my lady?’

‘What do you mean?’ Nefertiti hissed.

Akhenaten gestured at Ay, whose head went down.

‘Where is the brat?’ Nefertiti snarled.

‘He is safe.’

‘And the Monkey?’

‘She is dead.’

I gazed speechlessly at Akhenaten: the murmur of conversation died away.

‘The Lady Khiya is dead,’ Akhenaten repeated. ‘She has travelled to the Far Horizon. She is beyond our care and our tears, but not our memory. She died last night. The physician …’ I noticed the single title. ‘The physician was unable to staunch the bleeding.’

‘Then let her body rot!’ Nefertiti shouted. ‘And I pray her brat follows suit!’

Akhenaten sprang from the chair and, bringing up his hand, he punched Nefertiti full in the face, sending her flying back. Ay tried to catch her but the blow was so powerful Nefertiti was sent sprawling to the floor. The twins were screaming. Ankhespaaten remained kneeling. Courtiers half-rose, not knowing what they were to do. Nefertiti pulled herself to her feet, dabbing at the blood on the corner of her mouth. She whispered at Ay but he seemed like a broken reed, just slumped on his cushions, fearful of where Akhenaten’s rage might lead. Nefertiti now lost all control. She was screaming at Akhenaten who shouted back. Both their robes were now dishevelled, one of Akhenaten’s slippers had come off. The Royal Circle was so shocked it could only sit and watch Pharaoh and his Great Queen shouting at each other like a peasant and his wife in some back street of Thebes.

Rameses hid his smile. Horemheb just sat gaping at the scene. Meryre covered his ears. I realised that all the resentment which had seethed beneath the surface over the last few years was now surfacing in this violent shouting match. The Captain of the Guard burst into the chamber, alarmed by the noise but I gestured at him to leave. Rameses’ shoulders were now shaking with silent laughter as the argument continued; both Pharaoh and his Queen were about to lose all vestige of dignity. Akhenaten gazed wildly around. Perhaps my pleading look cut through the haze of anger for, gathering his robes about him, he walked back to his throne as if impervious to Nefertiti’s screams and imprecations. He gestured at me to come forward. I did so, knelt on the cushions and made obeisance. As I raised my head Ankhespaaten caught my eye, a smile on her lips as she moved closer to her father.

‘Your Majesty?’ I asked.

Akhenaten’s face was still suffused with anger; a line of spittle ran down his chin, his protuberant chest was heaving as if he had run a great distance; his white robes were sweat-soaked. He leaned forward, smacking my shoulder with the flail. He didn’t speak until Nefertiti fell silent, more out of exhaustion than anything else.

‘The Lady Nefertiti has used contumacious words.’ Akhenaten’s voice rang hollow. ‘She has dared to threaten the Crown Prince. She is to be banished to her apartments in the Northern Palace. She will not look on my face again. Mahu, carry out my will!’

I rose and walked towards Nefertiti, hands extended. In that hour she had aged. Her face-paint was patchy and running with the tears and sweat. One earring had come loose and, in her temper, she had torn the silver and golden collar from round her neck and it lay scattered at her feet.

‘My lady,’ I whispered, ‘we must leave.’

Nefertiti made to object.

‘Call the guards!’ Akhenaten shouted.

Nefertiti gave a long sigh, body quivering. I thought she was choking then her body went slack. She stood, head down, shoulders stooped, hands folded across her stomach. Then she summoned up her dignity and walked towards the door. She made to turn but I caught her by the elbow.

‘My lady,’ I whispered, ‘it’s useless.’

Akhenaten must have known what was going to happen. Outside swarmed a horde of Libyan mercenaries, handpicked men and officers. They immediately formed a ring round us. We walked through the corridors, across courtyards and gardens, following the King’s Road up towards the Northern Palace. It’s remarkable how the news of someone’s fall can spread as quickly as the wind. Frightened servants darted away. Courtiers and officials suddenly found something more interesting and disappeared from sight. Visitors and petitioners, guards, officers, scribes and priests melted away at the tramp of the mercenaries’ feet. We swept up the broad avenue into the precincts of the Northern Palace. Akhenaten’s decision had been planned. More guards were waiting, whilst in the royal quarters huddled frightened-looking maids and ladies-in-waiting ready to attend on their mistress. Nefertiti’s quarters were very similar to the small Palace of the Aten where Akhenaten had grown up on the outskirts of the Malkata Palace: a central courtyard ringed by buildings and beyond that a walled garden. Soldiers in full battle gear guarded each gate, door and approach. We were treated with every dignity and courtesy. The kitchens were already preparing food. Nefertiti now stopped and gazed sadly round.

‘Mahu, this is no surprise,’ she murmured. ‘It’s like going back in time. This is my new home, isn’t it?’

We passed through the small audience hall beyond which lay her private chambers. At the entrance to the bedchamber Nefertiti dismissed the gaggle of ladies-in-waiting as well as the burly thickset Captain of the Guard who had followed us up.

‘You,’ she pointed at him, ‘you can withdraw.’

He made to protest. ‘You shall withdraw,’ her voice rose, ‘and only approach my presence at my command. My daughters?’

‘Your Majesty,’ the Captain replied, ‘your daughters will be allowed to visit you whenever you wish. But as for withdrawing …’

‘Do as Her Majesty commands,’ I ordered, winking quickly at the man. He bowed and marched away. Nefertiti, plucking at my robe, gestured at me to follow. I did so, closing the door behind me, and leaned against it. She went across and sat on the edge of a small divan. For a while she just sat, face in hands, weeping quietly. I crossed to the table and poured out wine, specially chilled, and brought it across. She snatched it from my hands and drank greedily. I made to go but she called me back, throwing cushions at her feet for me to sit. She lifted her face, pale and drawn, but her eyes were still as beautiful, made even more so from their tears.

‘Mahu, did you know?’

‘Mistress.’ I shook my head. ‘By all that is holy, I knew nothing. I didn’t notice her.’

Nefertiti handed the wine-cup back to me. She sat running a finger along a plucked eyebrow. ‘I didn’t notice she was missing, Mahu. I even thought she had been sent back to Thebes. Where was she kept?’

‘She had her own small palace,’ I replied. ‘Madam, didn’t you know what was coming?’

‘Yes and no,’ she replied wearily. ‘After the birth of our last daughter, the Beloved no longer approached my bedchamber. He grew cold and distant. He would often ask me about my days in Akhmin. My relationship with my father.’

‘And?’ I dared to ask.

‘I tell you what I told him. My past is my past and so is his. Sometimes he would speak sharply to me. He would remind me that he was the son of the Aten. No, that’s wrong! You know the truth, don’t you, Mahu? My own father has told me often enough. Akhenaten believes he is the Aten himself. He is the God Incarnate, the Possessor of all Wisdom. He came to resent my very presence.’

I sat on those cushions in that beautiful, opulent chamber with its ivory-inlaid caskets, exquisite bed shrouded in white linen and delicate furniture. The walls were painted with the most pleasing scenes, made fragrant with flower baskets and pots of perfume. I realised then why Ay had whistled up the Sekhmets, why Horemheb and Rameses were so worried. The City of the Aten, my master’s dream, were teetering on the brink of ruin. Nefertiti, as if speaking to herself, recited a litany of grievances. I kept silent. I did not question her about the potions she had given Khiya, nor did I dream of mentioning Pentju’s name, though I suspected what had happened. At last, overcome by the effects of the wine and her own nervous exhaustion, Nefertiti lay down on the divan, pulled a cushion beneath her lovely tear-streaked cheeks, and fell asleep.

For a while I just knelt and studied that exquisite face framed by its glorious red hair. Then, leaning closer, I kissed her gently on the half-open lips still sweet with the taste of wine. I rose to my feet and walked to the door.

‘Mahu,’ she called out. I didn’t turn but paused, my hand on the latch. ‘I made a mistake, betrayed by my own pride and arrogance.’

I opened the door and left. I made my way to the mansion of the Lady Khiya, a palatial residence in its own grounds surrounded by a high-bricked wall. The gates were heavily guarded. My presence there was questioned by mercenary officers who treated me more as an enemy than someone they knew. However, I was persistent. At last I was ushered through. Pentju, grey-faced and hollow-eyed, met me in the garden. I told him what had happened. He smiled and nodded in satisfaction. When I struck him in the face, he didn’t object or call for the guard, but clambered slowly to his feet, wiping the blood from his nose, laughing quietly to himself. I struck him again, even as I could hear the hymn of lamentation from the house as Khiya’s body was being prepared for burial in one of the tombs in the eastern cliffs.

‘Will you hit me again?’ Pentju nursed the side of his face. ‘Or is it a case of doctor heal thyself?’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Why not?’ Pentju’s sly eyes creased in a smile. ‘Why not, Mahu? To be treated like a dog in front of the court! My arse exposed like some naughty schoolboy! To receive no apology! To be banished! The same for Khiya. She became pregnant about eighteen months ago but the baby was premature.’

‘How?’ I asked.

‘How do you think babies are conceived?’ he spat back.

I raised my hand.

‘Mahu, Mahu,’ he grasped my wrist and gently lowered my arm. ‘Khiya was cunning as a monkey. She suspected Nefertiti’s gifts of wine and food contained potions which would either stop her conceiving or destroy anything formed in the egg. I told her only to eat and drink what I gave her. The Divine One often came here. Oh, I thrilled at what Khiya told me. How he was growing tired of Nefertiti who saw herself as his equal both before man and god. How bitterly disappointed he was that he had no son.’ Pentju shrugged and sat down on a wooden garden seat; he picked up a small pot of flowers and kneaded the black soil with a finger.

‘When Khiya became pregnant again, Akhenaten swore me to secrecy. The same for everyone who worked here. The cooks, the maids, they are all Mitanni owing allegiance to Khiya and to no one else. She was instructed not to leave the gardens: the gates were guarded and, of course, no one ever suspected.’

‘Except for Ay?’

‘Except for Ay.’ Pentju sighed. ‘Somehow he heard the news but dare not tell his daughter nor raise the matter with Pharaoh himself. Ten days ago the child was born, strong and vigorous. Poor Khiya became weak. She caught a fever and died. Pharaoh had issued strict orders. No one was to come here. No one was to leave without his written permission.’

‘Except for me?’

Pentju closed one eye and squinted up at me, nursing his sore jaw. ‘She liked you, Mahu, you know that. Khiya really liked you. You were one of the few people who showed her respect. She thought you were funny. How did she describe you?’ He closed his eyes. ‘Oh, that’s it! Not a man who had lost his soul but one who was searching for it. In the last few hours before she died she was sweat-soaked, feverish, hot as a rock burning in the sun. She whispered your name and asked to be remembered to you.’

I felt a chill run through my body. Pentju had lost his cynical look. He rose and grasped both my wrists.

‘I allowed you in, Mahu, because of her.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Because I have a message: “Tell Mahu,” Khiya said, “that I speak before I die and I will speak from beyond the grave”.’

I recognised the Mitanni turn of phrase for someone taking a great oath.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘“Tell Mahu to protect my son. Tell Mahu to be his guiding spirit, to protect him as he once protected the Veiled One. Tell him that perhaps my son is the One who is to come, the Messiah, the Holy One of God”.’

Pentju held me so tight, his gaze was so fierce, his voice so strong that I knew he spoke the truth.

‘I cannot.’

‘No, you must, Mahu! She swore a sacred oath. She called your name. Whether you like it or not, you are bound to that child. Stay here.’

Pentju left and returned a short while later followed by a young woman carrying a baby in swaddling clothes, suckling at her generous breast. The girl looked up at me and smiled. She chattered in a tongue I could not understand. Pentju replied and the woman placed the child gently in my arms.

It was the first time I, Mahu, had ever held a baby. I gazed down, pushing back the linen hood which protected the head. I noticed the skull was strangely elongated at the back but the face was most comely: little eyes stared unblinkingly at me, chubby cheeks, a little mouth opening and closing, eager for the nipple and the life-giving milk. I expected him to cry at being taken away from his suckling but he just stared at me. I felt his warmth seeping through the linen blankets. I pushed my finger into the little hand and smiled at the grip. Pentju said something to the wetnurse who withdrew. For a while I just stared down at this tiny creature who had caused such confusion and chaos to the power of Egypt.

‘Tutankhaten,’ I whispered, ‘the Crown Prince Tutankhaten.’

Those small black eyes gazed at me owlishly. They say that babies don’t smile, that their expressions are simply caused by hunger and thirst. However, that little one smiled at me, a fleeting expression, as if he was savouring a joke. I handed him back to Pentju.

‘He is well and vigorous?’

‘Well and vigorous,’ Pentju agreed, ‘with no disfigurement or deformity.’

I thought he was going to add something else but he called the wetnurse in. He did not talk again about the oath but escorted me back to the gate. I realised there was an unspoken, unwritten agreement that, whatever happened, Khiya’s dying oath would bind me for ever.

For the next few weeks all was chaos and confusion. Ay retreated to his own quarters. Everyone else became busy in that frenetic, mindless way as courtiers do when they wish to ignore something and not face the consequences of what might happen. The Royal Circle didn’t meet. Queen Tiye visited both her son and Nefertiti, but it was obvious that the rift between the Royal Couple was bitter and could not be healed. Akhenaten himself seemed wholly taken up with his new son whilst Nefertiti now became a recluse in her apartments in the Northern Palace. No one could approach her. Even when I applied for leave to do so, Chamberlain Tutu instructed me never to ask again. Akhenaten also withdrew. Life in the city became slower, more disorganised. Work on the Royal Tomb and other sepulchres abruptly halted. Everything was in a state of flux and, as happens in the affairs of men, the blundering of blind fate intervened.