An Evil Spirit Out of the West

Chapter 19

The pestilence swept into the City of Aten at the height of the hot season during year thirteen of Akhenaten’s reign. A virulent plague, it brought the sweating sickness followed by instant death. Coming so swiftly on the rift between Pharaoh and his Great Queen, it looked as if the gods had finally turned their face against Egypt. The plague was brought to the quayside of the city and swept through the streets on both sides of the Nile. The empty house of Makhre and Nekmet, as Djarka often told me, had been a constant topic of conversation especially when people tried to buy it: they could see no reason why it should be left to lie uninhabited. By the time the plague faded during the spring of the fourteenth year of Akhenaten’s reign there were many empty houses in the City of Aten.

The plague, an invisible mist of death and destruction, wreaked havoc among all classes. The symptoms became the constant topic of conversation — a terrible sweating, lumps in the groin and armpits, vomiting and excruciating stomach pains. I know, I became a victim. I only survived thanks to Djarka, who brought in a Sheshnu wise man who fed me a mixture of dried moss mixed with stale milk. Djarka escaped unscathed, but for weeks I was in the Underworld, a frightening reality where the devourers gathered around me, men in strange armour, faces covered with ugly masks, grotesque beasts such as winged griffins, crocodiles with the heads of hyenas. All the dead clustered about me as if to celebrate some infernal party — Aunt Isithia, Ineti, Weni, Nekmet, Snefru, Makhre and all the rest, gloating to see me. I swam in a pit of fire with dark shapes hovering above me and raucous cries echoing through the red, misty air. I survived but thousands didn’t.

For most of year fourteen of Akhenaten’s reign I remained weak and helpless. I couldn’t stand for long; even a short walk exhausted me. Only after the appearance of the Dog Star which marked the New Year did my old strength return. Djarka allowed me to look at myself in a polished mirror.

‘You are as lean as a greyhound.’

I had changed. My hair had grown and was tinged with grey. There were marks around my mouth, and my cheeks were slightly sunken. I studied my eyes and pushed the mirror away.

‘What’s the matter?’ Djarka asked.

‘I have the face of a monkey,’ I replied, ‘but worse still, Sobeck’s eyes.’

‘It’s the effects of the plague,’ Djarka countered. ‘By spring you will be well again.’

Only then did he tell me the extent of the devastation. Great Queen Tiye, Princess Meketaten as well as Akhenaten’s two youngest daughters, not to mention scores of notables, scribes and priests had been swept away. Pentju was safe, so was the young Crown Prince, locked away in strict isolation. Horemheb and Rameses had fled out into the Red Lands. Ay, Maya and Huy had followed suit.

‘Karnak’s also dead!’

I put my face in my hands.

‘He ate …’

‘Don’t tell me,’ I whispered. ‘Let it go! Meryre?’

‘The demons look after their own master, still full of pomp and pus.’

‘And Akhenaten?’

‘Alive but a hermit.’

I glanced down, my hands were shaking. Djarka crouched before me.

‘You often spoke about her, Master — Great Queen Nefertiti! You cried out for her in the night!’

‘Well?’ I asked.

‘She survived, a prisoner of the Northern Palace. But, come, I must show you the city.’

Djarka brought a chariot from the imperial stables. The day was dismal and overcast. A cold breeze sent the dry leaves whirling, and he made me wear a cloak as he drove me into the city. Its streets and avenues were deserted. Houses had been boarded up. The Wadjet Eye had been daubed on walls. The desiccated corpses of rats, crows and bats were still nailed to the doors of houses where families had died. Smoke from countless pyres, built at crossroads and corners to fumigate the air, curled like snakes to sting one’s nostrils and throat. Carts, pulled by oxen, heavily laden with putrefying corpses, made their way out up to the rim of the eastern cliffs where fierce fires raged, burning the dead. Black plumes rose against the distant sky before being scattered by the breeze from the Nile. Markets were closed, only a few shops did business. Men and women, dressed like Desert Wanderers, hurried by, cloths hiding their heads, mouths and nostrils. Mercenaries, armed and ready, squatted or lounged, their very presence imposing a deathly stillness.

‘A city of the dead,’ Djarka murmured. ‘At the height of the plague, Master, it seemed as if these were more like the streets of the Underworld. Dead piled outside doorways, scavengers and looters busy. Fires burning as if the earth had turned to flame.’

‘Who kept order?’ I asked.

‘Ay, Horemheb and Rameses. They imposed martial law. The physicians say the plague is over but people are drifting away.’

We approached the great Temple of the Aten. A side gate creaked in the wind. Priests stood about in small groups. A dour spirit now possessed this place. There were no pilgrims, no smell of incense came from the sacrificial fires. The gardens which fringed the avenue leading up to the temple were choked with weeds and badly tended.

‘Look at the graffiti,’ Djarka urged. He reined in the horses and we got down. The lampoonists had been busy with caricatures of Akhenaten. These self-appointed artists missed no details of the King’s physique: the strange, elongated head, bulbous slitted eyes, narrow chin, heavy lips and swollen stomach. In these pictures, however, the King had no grace or beauty; he was depicted as feckless, a drunkard, bleary-eyed and badly in need of the attention of the royal dresser. Other pictures represented the world turned upside down. One showed a harsh-faced cat standing erect, clutching a shepherd’s hook, herding a flock of birds. Another depicted a hippopotamus perched in a tree, a servant in the shape of a crow ready to tend to him. A third showed a small boy before a court of justice. The policeman was a cat whilst the judge, garbed in his insignia of office, was a large mouse with protuberant chest and stomach, slitted eyes and a narrow elongated face. Next to this painting an army of mice stormed a fortress, defended by starving cats drawn very cleverly with the features of Akhenaten, Nefertiti and others of the royal court.

We climbed back into the chariot and Djarka drove me home along those same smoke-filled, sombre streets. I must have been noticed for three days later I received a summons from the Royal Palace. As Djarka escorted me along its deserted corridors, the only people we glimpsed were mercenaries and household troops. The Chamberlain who accompanied us whispered how this was the Divine One’s wish.

‘He has dismissed all his servants,’ the fellow confided, ‘for he trusts none of us.’

Guards at the entrance to the Throne Room searched me and Djarka. He was told to wait as the door was opened. I was almost pushed into the dark, sour-smelling room lit only by a few oil lamps and the rays of a weak sun pouring through the high oblong windows. I’ll never forget what I saw. Most of the chamber was in darkness. The only light seemed to be around the throne where Akhenaten slouched naked except for a loincloth and a pectoral of dazzling fire around his neck. A girlish voice told me to approach. I did so and stood before the throne, too shocked to make the obeisance. Akhenaten’s head was shaven; the lower part of his face was covered in stubble, his eyes hollow and sunken peered at me like fluttering oil lamps. Ankhespaaten was sitting in his lap feeding him from a cherry bowl whilst on a cushioned chair to his right his eldest daughter Meritaten lounged, cradling a wine-cup. Both rose as I entered. They were pregnant, their bellies and breasts swollen. Dressed like hesets in diaphanous kilts above loincloths, embroidered shawls about their shoulders, they glittered in a glow of jewellery, necklaces and bangles which rattled at their every movement like the sistra of the dancing girls. Recalling myself, I knelt on the cushions. As I did so, I glimpsed the nails of Akhenaten’s fingers and toes; they were unusually long and dirt-filled, and his body sweat was powerful.

At first Akhenaten seemed to be unaware of my arrival. When I glanced up, he stared back in puzzlement. His two daughters sidled up on either side. Meritaten shyly tried to pluck the shawl closer about her. Ankhespaaten was brazen, making no attempt to hide her condition or the beauty of her young body. She stood slightly forward, resting against the throne, her right arm along its top, fingers ready to caress her father’s head. In her left hand was a deep-bowled cup of wine which she offered to her father. Akhenaten’s hand shook as he took it. He gulped noisily and belched. Meritaten kept her head down, the heavy braids of her perfumed wig half-concealing her face. Ankhespaaten, however, smiled boldly, even flirtatiously. Akhenaten moved on the throne.

‘They have all gone, Mahu.’

‘Who have, Your Majesty?’

Akhenaten’s eyes were vague, his mouth slack, lips wet with wine. He slurped from the wine-bowl again.

‘The spirit is gone. My Father has hidden his face. So many dead.’ He put the wine-cup down, hands going out to caress the swollen stomachs of his daughters.

‘The Beautiful One has gone but my seed still fertilises. I will people the earth with my own seed but they still bother me, Ay and the rest. Reports about this, reports about that.’ He blinked. ‘I thought you had gone, Mahu. I thought you were dead.’

‘I was ill, Your Majesty.’

‘How beautiful,’ Akhenaten chanted, sitting back on his throne. ‘How beautiful are your rays.’ He blew his nose on his fingers and stamped his foot.

‘What do you advise, Baboon of the South?’

‘Advise, Your Majesty? Why, clear the streets. Have them and the gardens purified. Order the merchants back. Open the markets, show your face.’

‘And?’

‘Bring back your true Queen.’

‘Oh, she’s back.’ Akhenaten swayed drunkenly and tapped the side of his head. ‘She is still here.’

‘My father will rule.’ Ankhespaaten spoke up fiercely, her eyes bright with anger. ‘Our line, this seed, his glory will carry us forward to new times.’

For a moment, though her hair was black as night, her kohl-ringed eyes dark pools, the soul of Nefertiti glowed in that girl-woman, impregnated by her own father. She was ruthlessly determined to defend his and her own interests.

‘Your son, Your Majesty?’

I ignored Ankhespaaten’s hiss of disapproval as she stared like an angry cat, painted nails beating a tattoo on the back of her father’s throne. ‘He is safe!’ Akhenaten shook his head. ‘Baboon …’

‘Bring back your Great Wife.’

‘I will think of that, Mahu, but now you have got to go. My seed,’ he pointed down to his groin, ‘my seed wants out.’

I rose.

‘I didn’t tell you to go now.’

I slumped back on the cushions.

‘I’ll summon the Royal Circle,’ Akhenaten slurred. ‘I’ll summon it, but let Ay preside until I decide what to do with his head. No, no, no.’ Akhenaten was talking to himself. ‘His head is safe. I need him. Meryre will watch him.’ He put his face in his hands and sobbed. ‘I’ll tell them all to come back.’ His words were muffled. He raised a tear-stained face. ‘I wish I could go back, Baboon of the South. I wish I could return to that grove with the rising sun washing my face.’ He shook his head. ‘It was not fair. I had no choice. Don’t you realise that, Mahu? I had no choice.’

‘When, Your Majesty?’

‘In the Temple of Amun.’

‘Your Majesty?’

‘I had no choice. I knew the wine was poisoned. I baited my brother Tuthmosis and he left. I asked him to wait in my chamber, so I could tell him a great secret about our mother. You see, Mahu, I knew the wine was poisoned. I … I …’ He stumbled on his words.

I glanced at Meritaten. She still stood head down but Ankhespaaten knew what her father was saying.

‘I’d been back to my chamber, Mahu. I had seen the poisoned wine in the jug, the cup next to it.’

‘Your Majesty.’ I breathed hard, trying to hide a quiver of fear. My heart was in my throat. I found it difficult to speak. Akhenaten was leaning forward like a penitent confessing his sins to a priest.

‘Ay and Nefertiti told me the wine would be poisoned. I was not to drink or eat anything. I felt so faint but they told me how it would happen and they were right.’

The memories flooded back. Ay reflecting on what to do. Shishnak protesting his innocence until the pain made him confess. Hotep grinning at me in that garden, brazenly misleading me just before he died. Now I realised the traps he had hidden away. Hotep hadn’t wanted to alert me. He wished to keep me close to Ay and Nefertiti, a willing tool for their ambitions. And who else had Hotep used? Pentju! He had not only been motivated by revenge, he must have been in Hotep’s pay from the start. As had Khiya. She had visited the Magnificent One in his House of Love not just to receive the juice of the poppy but to report all she had learned. Hotep had been the one who had brought her there. Hotep had quietly plotted his revenge even before he fell from power.

Hotep and Ay, two cobras circling each other, plotting for the future. Had Hotep also encouraged the Magnificent One to enjoy little Khiya, a subtle revenge on his grotesque son? Had Hotep told Khiya to accept her lonely status, the patronising jibes of Nefertiti and await her chance? Only then, years later, did I see the fruits of Hotep’s wily brain. He must have realised that one day, Akhenaten would turn on Nefertiti. Khiya and Pentju were his weapons. Ay, the supreme plotter, could do little to check Hotep except to push ahead his own plans, speeding like a runner to the finish: the murder of Tuthmosis and the advancement of Akhenaten. I could understand Khiya being suborned by Hotep — but Pentju? Then I recalled his infatuation with the Lady Tenbra, a noblewoman, who, in truth, would hardly look at a mere physician. Hotep, of course, would have smoothed Pentju’s path. And that poison which had killed Tuthmosis? It was not the work of Shishnak and the priests of Amun but the Akhmin gang. Of course, Ay and Nefertiti would have their spies amongst the priests of Amun. It would be so easy to arrange for a jug of poisoned wine to be left in a chamber and Akhenaten instructed not to eat or drink anything. I glanced at my master’s bleary face. Had he been fully aware of the plot against his own brother? Other thoughts came tumbling back. The invitation to the Temple of Amun: had that been Shishnak’s work or a sly suggestion by Ay through his placement in the priestly hierarchy at Karnak? An ambitious gamble, so subtle, the priests of Karnak took the blame.

‘My Lord Mahu?’

I broke from my reverie. Ankhespaaten was leaning forward.

‘What you have heard is sacred and secret. My father trusts his Baboon of the South.’

‘And you, my lady?’

‘What my father wants is my desire.’

I glanced at Meritaten. She was smiling shyly at me, her beautiful face so vacuous I wondered about her wits.

‘Mahu?’ Akhenaten was holding a sealed scroll in his hands, which he must have concealed in the cushions of the throne. He thrust this at me.

‘If anything happens to me …’

‘Your Majesty, nothing will.’

‘When I go back to my Father,’ Akhenaten’s voice was now firm, ‘open that scroll. As you can see, it is sealed three times. Promise me, Mahu’ — tears filled his eyes — ‘for what we have, for the friendship we had, you will keep it safe? Swear now!’

I raised my hand and spoke the oath. He handed it over.

‘Go, Mahu, my friend.’

I left and as I did so, Akhenaten and his two daughters, their voices sounding hollow, began to recite a spell from The Book of the Dead.

By the second month of the season of Peret, in the fifteenth year of Akhenaten’s reign, the pestilence had completely disappeared. The City of the Aten returned to some form of normality, but its heart, once strong, now beat faintly. Akhenaten showed himself escorted by his two daughters, who rejoiced in the title of Queen. They had given birth to daughters — each had been given their own name with the suffix ‘Tasheit’ — but neither child had survived the first month of their life. People whispered that it was a judgement from the gods. Nefertiti still remained a recluse, all access to her denied.

The city was now administered by a small council of Devouts which included Ay and, on occasion, General Horemheb. Ay had passed unscathed through the pestilence. We exchanged pleasantries but I kept my own counsel. Ay was an ally but no longer a friend. I concealed the scroll Akhenaten had given me. For days after my audience with him I reflected on what I had learned. There was no dream or vision of the Aten. Perhaps Queen Tiye had been pure in her thoughts but I was in a nest of writhing cobras. The struggle was about power and glory and, for what it was worth, I was part of it.

At the end of that summer the Royal Circle was solemnly convened. Everyone was present, even Pentju, aloof and quiet, as if he knew his part but did not really care. The rest had continued to prosper, advancing their careers, creating spheres of influence, building up factions and forging alliances. Horemheb was a leading General in the army command, Rameses his Lieutenant. Huy was master of all affairs beyond Egypt’s borders. Maya knew every measure of gold and silver, or the lack of it, from the treasuries of Egypt. Meryre, lost in his fool’s paradise, still dreamed of being High Priest of a religion which would stretch from the Euphrates to beyond the Third Cataract. Ay was more himself, relaxed and smiling. We all sat as if nothing had happened, yet each quietly plotted for the future. The City of Aten, the reign of the Sun Disc, the idea of the One were all dust. They were impatient to sweep it away and assume the normal business of power: the only obstacle was how?

Ay, however, in a brilliant display of hypocrisy and cant, supported by the children of the Kap, his close allies, deliberately misled Tutu, Meryre and the rest. He painted a picture which even I found convincing. How Akhenaten had returned to his usual vigour. How the city would prosper. How General Horemheb would reorganise the armies and advance Egypt’s standards from one end of the Empire to the other, all under the glowing patronage of the Aten. Tutu, Meryre and the rest drank this in like greedy children.

Afterwards, in the seclusion of his own private garden, Ay convened a second meeting of the children of the Kap, including Pentju. He questioned the physician most closely about the health and wellbeing of the young Prince. Pentju replied truthfully but made it very clear that the young boy was in his care and would only be handed over to those Akhenaten appointed. Ay pursed his lips, pronounced himself satisfied and moved to the other items of business. We sat in the shade sipping Charou wine and quenching our thirst on slices of lemon and pomegranate, whilst we divided an empire.

Following so swiftly after the meeting of the Royal Circle I felt I could have burst out laughing. No one questioned Ay’s decision or the underlying principle that Akhenaten’s reign was coming to an end, his revolution no more exciting than a dried-out riverbed. Huy and Maya gave a pithy blunt description of affairs. How Thebes was seething with unrest. The treasuries were empty whilst beyond Egypt’s borders the allegiance of our allies was growing weaker by the month. Horemheb delivered more ominous news. How the Egyptian army high command at Memphis were on the brink of mutiny: bereft of supplies, weapons and recruits, commanders were unable to despatch any troops across Sinai either to support Egypt’s allies or defend her precious mines and trade routes.

At last the decision was made. Huy and Maya would return to Thebes. They would form their own House of Scribes and secretly plan for the future. Horemheb, supported by Rameses, would be appointed Commander-in-Chief of all Egypt’s forces and take over the garrison at Memphis. Ay urged the need for secrecy but they were all to follow the same path and sing the same hymn. They were to restore confidence, assure the powerful that the old ways would return, that the City of the Aten was merely a stumbling block in the glorious path of Egypt’s true destiny. No one, of course, dared raise, even hint, at what Akhenaten might think or say. Ay already had that under control. Each of my colleagues were given their seals of office, their commissions all bearing the royal cartouche of Akhenaten. Once he had finished, each of us took an oath of loyalty, of common friendship and alliance. Hands were clasped and the children of the Kap went their own way.

A few weeks later I broached the matter of Akhenaten’s state of mind with Ay. I avoided the temptation of confronting him. I believed we shared a common soul, or at least I thought we did. Ay was as dangerous and as cunning as a mongoose. What memories does any hunter hold of what he’s slain? The hunter lives for the moment and plans for the future. Ay had to view me as an ally, not as his conscience. He listened to what I said and brought his fingers to his lips.

‘Very perceptive, Mahu. As always you point your finger at the heart of the problem.’

‘Don’t patronise me, God’s Father,’ I retorted. ‘Huy and Mahu, not to mention Horemheb and Rameses, even Pentju, must be thinking the same. Tutu and Meryre are easy to fool. They still dream and haven’t woken up.’

‘We will see,’ Ay replied. ‘We shall speak to the Divine One and his Co-regent.’

Naturally I reported to Djarka what had happened. Most of it he knew, or at least suspected, but he was intrigued by the reference to a Co-regent. Djarka openly wondered if Ay had managed to worm himself so firmly back into Akhenaten’s affections that he was being raised to the rank and title of Pharaoh.

‘And yet,’ Djarka shook his head, ‘I find that impossible. Nobody would accept him.’

‘What about Crown Prince Tutankhaten?’ I asked.

‘But he’s only a child.’

On the day of audience Ay collected me from my house, making sure that I was dressed in the full ceremonial robes of a courtier. Surrounded by fan-bearers and flunkies and preceded by heralds and musicians, we swept up into the Palace of the Aten. The gateways and corridors, courtyards and gardens were full of Nakhtimin’s men in the full regalia of battle, blue and gold head-dresses, snow-white kilts, spears and shields at the ready. At the door to the Throne Room a host of chamberlains and office-holders milled about. Trumpets blared. Gongs sounded. Gusts of incense perfumed the air. Meryre, dressed in his exquisite robes, escorted us into the imperial presence. The Throne Room had been changed. A raised daïs covered in gold-leaf now held two resplendent thrones. I could only stand and gape. Ankhesenamun and Meritaten were sitting at the edge of the daïs on small cushioned chairs. Akhenaten wore the Double Crown of Egypt, a cloth of gold round his shoulders, the Nekhbet pectoral shimmering brilliantly against his chest, and a brilliant white kilt falling down to his ankles. Beside him was a resplendent figure. I gasped in astonishment. This person too wore the full regalia of Pharaoh, grasping the flail and the rod, but the face was that of Great Queen Nefertiti. Her glorious hair had been shaven, her eyebrows plucked, her face carefully painted like that of her husband. At first glance she seemed not to have aged a day but, as I drew closer, I glimpsed the stoop of her shoulders, the podgy arms and fat hands, the cheeks slightly sagging, the lines round the mouth which even the paint could not disguise. Ay, quietly revelling in my surprise, knelt on the cushions and made obeisance. I did likewise, my forehead touching the ground. We received no command to rise. Akhenaten’s voice boomed out.

‘Now let it be known to the Kingdom of the Two Lands. Let my words be carried beyond the Third Cataract that I, in my wisdom, under the guidance of my Father, have decreed that my Great Wife and Great Queen Nefernefruaten-Nefertiti is now my co-ruler, assuming the name of Ankheperure-Smenkhkare-Nefernefruaten. Let it be known that her imperial seal carries the will of God; the voice of Smenkhkare will be obeyed.’

On and on he went, proclaiming the greatness of Nefertiti under her new name Smenkhkare. Of course I could only kneel and listen, recalling how Egypt had once boasted of its great Queen Pharaohs, such as Hatchesphut, daughter of the great Tuthmosis III. When Akhenaten finished, we were told to kneel back. I gazed on the face which had always haunted my soul. For a moment, those eyes shifted, a slight smile appeared, before the imperial mask returned. Akhenaten then proceeded to issue a series of decrees, each one being repeated but most of them only confirmed what Ay had already decided.

Once they had finished we were ordered to withdraw. Ay led me out into one of the small walled gardens where tables had been prepared with silver dishes and goblets, fruit and wine being served by servants who quickly withdrew.

‘How long have you known this?’ I asked.

‘For a short while,’ Ay grinned.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why has this happened?’

‘Why, Mahu? Because you yourself pleaded with Akhenaten. Did you not say his Great Queen should be restored? All right,’ he scoffed, ‘I see the cynical smile.’

Ay walked over to the sun pavilion and sat on a cushioned seat indicating I sit next to him.

‘The honest answer is that Akhenaten has come to his senses. Nefertiti is the life-force of his soul. In fact, I go further — she is his Ka, his Ba, the very essence of his being. He bans Nefertiti and what happens? Three of his children die! The children he had by his two daughters do not survive. A great plague has swept through the City of Aten. There are troubles in Thebes and elsewhere. It’s not difficult, Mahu, to make Akhenaten reflect on the reason why the milk has gone sour. Of course,’ he plucked at the embroidered sash round his waist and stared quizzically at a painting on the wall of the pavilion, ‘he does love her, Mahu. He has missed her sweet breath, her gracious smile.’

‘And now all will be well again!’ I retorted. ‘The lotus will bloom, the papyrus will grow, the sun will shine, the rains will come and all will be well in paradise.’

‘Something like that.’ Ay glanced out of the corner of his eye. ‘But you don’t believe it, do you, Mahu?’

I didn’t reply but rose, bowed and left. The last days had begun. Akhenaten and Nefertiti could smile and coo. Pharaoh might send presents with the word ‘forever’ written in hieroglyphics on a piece of papyrus: a cobra, a bread loaf and a strip of land, but the bread was stale, the land was as hard and the cobra was dangerous. I suspected Akhenaten was now drugged and drunk, soft clay in the hands of Ay who portrayed himself as his saviour. That mongoose of a man was now playing the most dangerous of games, a fervent Atenist who secretly plotted the return of the old ways. Or was it the other way round? I could never really decide what was the truth.

This great change was publicised by processions, Akhenaten and Nefertiti in their gorgeously decorated chariot, harness gleaming, ostrich plumes dancing, clouds of incense billowing about. They were escorted by the nobles in their multi-coloured robes and exotic sandals, guarded by soldiers armed with shields, spears, battle-axes and bows. It was all a dream. He and Nefertiti, dressed alike in war-kilt, jackal tail and the blue War Crown of Egypt, sacrificed white bulls with garlands round their necks. Nothing but show. They stood at the Window of Appearances in beautiful robes bound by red sashes and presented necklaces and gifts to the clash of cymbals. It was all an illusion. Akhenaten was more like a wooden idol from one of the temples he despised, brought out for public display. The real power lay in the hands of Ay and Nefertiti who now rejoiced in her new throne name of Smenkhkare.

They both worked feverishly to restore the damage done. Writs, proclamations, declarations and public promises streamed from the palace. The double doors of the Great House were thrown open to petitioners and supplicants from every city in Egypt but Smenkhkare’s cartouche appeared on the bottom of these documents. ‘Smenkhkare’ assumed the full regalia of the Empire. It was she who sat in grandeur and glory speaking with true voice and issuing writs whilst Meritaten appeared as her escort. So developed was the illusion that Nefertiti became more and more like a man, her daughter assuming the role of Queen.

Djarka and I were kept busy as if we were being deliberately distracted from the affairs of the Empire by the conditions of the city. We were instructed to search out wrongdoers, apprehend thieves, pursue robbers into the Red Lands. Only twice did I meet Nefertiti in her new role and she was as cold and hard as the flesh of a dead man. The last time was in the Great Writing Office where she dismissed her scribes. Only her Captain of Mercenaries remained, a Canaanite called Manetho, a grizzled, scarred man with a bushy moustache and beard who followed her every movement with all the blind affection and loyalty of a dog. Nefertiti-Smenkhkare had summoned me to deliver a lecture about the need for greater law and order at night in the city streets. She even hinted at my possible removal and sat in the high-backed chair like a judge delivering his verdict on a guilty man. She was still beautiful though her body was corpulent, her face fatter, the cheeks not so smooth, the mouth rather droopy, but her blue eyes still blazed with light and life. She dismissed me as if I was a dog.

The end came not in some dramatic form. Another summons to the palace, this time in the presence of Ay. Nefertiti-Smenkhkare sat on her throne at the far end of the Great Room with Meritaten on a stool on her right and Ankhespaaten on her left. Manetho, armed and helmeted, stood behind the throne. As I swept up towards her, I noticed members of Manetho’s corps standing in the alcoves, the oil lamps glittering in the reflection of their drawn swords. The room was as beautiful as ever, perfume-filled with baskets of flowers, well-lit, but there was no hiding the air of menace, of silent threat. We knelt on the cushions on the floor and made obeisance. Meryre standing in the shadows ordered us to sit back and we did so. Ay was relaxed, he knew exactly what was about to happen. Like a master of music, he was directing every movement. From another room in the palace I heard the strains of singing as the royal choir rehearsed. For a moment I thought this was Akhenaten’s Orchestra of the Sun but most of these had died during the great pestilence; their music would be heard no more.

‘You are pleased to look upon my face, Mahu?’

‘The light of your face, O Divine One,’ I spoke the ritual, ‘refreshes my limbs and gladdens my heart. I bask in the joy of your favour and seek your protection.’

‘Then know this, Mahu, son of Seostris. Proclamations are to be issued in my name only for I am Pharaoh, Lord of the Two Lands, Smenkhkare-Ankhkeperure.’ Nefertiti stared coldly, waiting for my response.

‘The Divine One?’ I asked.

‘Beloved Pharaoh Akhenaten-Waenre is no more.’

‘He has died, Your Majesty?’

‘He lives still,’ came the reply. ‘He has journeyed back to his Father. He and his Father are now one.’

My heart teemed with questions. I opened my mouth to speak but Ay’s soft cough and Nefertiti’s look of implacable majesty kept me silent. Nefertiti then proceeded, under her new name and titles, to issue edicts of how the news was to be announced in the city as well as be carried to every corner of the Empire. After that I was dismissed. Of course I questioned Ay. I demanded the truth, to see the corpse. ‘What preparations have been made for his burial?’ I asked. ‘In which tomb will he be buried?’ Ay shrugged and fended these questions off.

‘The tombs in the eastern cliffs,’ he declared, ‘are full of coffins and sarcophagi, the work of the plague.’

I sat in that small antechamber as the full realisation of what Nefertiti had said dawned on me. Memories came flooding back. The Veiled One in his pavilion or walking with me in the gardens, discussing his vision, chattering about this and that. Now he was gone, his death dismissed as if he was some peasant, some person of low repute. Ay, apart from his casual remark about the tombs on the eastern cliffs, sat in a chair watching me intently.

‘I know why I am here.’ I wafted away a buzzing fly.

‘Why are you here, Mahu?’

‘You are using me, as you would a measure, to test gold or silver.’

‘What do you mean?’ He narrowed his eyes.

‘Do you think, God’s Father Ay,’ I retorted, ‘that’s how it will end? Akhenaten is dead. Long live Smenkhkare who is not really Smenkhkare but your daughter Nefertiti? Do you really believe people will accept this? That Great Pharaoh has gone but no one knows where?’

‘But nobody does.’ He pressed his fingers against my lips. ‘Mahu, I speak with true voice. Three weeks ago, the Divine One, Akhenaten, simply disappeared.’

‘You mean he was murdered?’

Something in Ay’s face made me regret the question. A passing look, a rare one of genuine hurt.

‘Mahu, he disappeared! He was in his quarters and then the next morning, when the servants entered his bedchamber’ — Ay spread his hands — ‘it was empty. Immediately we began a search of the palace grounds and the city.’

His words struck a chord in my memory. How Djarka had reported just under a month ago about mercenaries from Manetho’s corps searching the city, of chariot squadrons being despatched into the Red Lands. At the time I thought it was some military matter, a reflection of Ay and Nefertiti’s desire for security.

‘But where? How? Why?’ I demanded.

‘I don’t know, Mahu. Akhenaten had become a recluse; more and more he demanded to be by himself. On occasion he would request a chariot, and horses from the stable to be harnessed, then he’d drive out to his tomb, and on into the Red Lands. He would go garbed like a common courtier or petty official, his face and head concealed in a hood. Sometimes he even wore a veil over his face as he used to when he was a boy.’

I recalled Akhenaten’s drunken babbling. How he longed for the old days, the seclusion and purity of his youth.

‘The people will demand to see his corpse and, if they don’t, Horemheb, Rameses and the rest will.’

‘They shall be told what you are being told,’ Ay replied. ‘Akhenaten did not believe in the Osirian rite. We will say, and it is the truth, that body and soul, Akhenaten has gone back to his Father. He is no longer with us except in spirit.’

‘And what happens if he reappears? What happens, God’s Father Ay, if our great Pharaoh re-emerges from the Red Lands, purified and more determined than ever?’

Ay shook his head. ‘He is past all that.’

‘Did he ever hint,’ I demanded, ‘ever make reference to this?’

‘He was morose and withdrawn.’ Ay shrugged. ‘My daughter, myself, Meryre and Tutu will take the most solemn oaths. We know nothing. We have searched.’

‘What do you think truly happened?’ I asked.

‘Shall I tell you, Mahu?’ Ay pushed the stool closer till his face was almost touching mine. ‘Akhenaten became tired and disillusioned. He either went out to the Red Lands to die or to be alone. He may have been killed. He may have died or he may be living in some cave like those wandering holy men who speak to no one but the spirits of the desert, the wind and the sky. Whatever, Mahu, the decision has been made: he cannot, shall not return.’

‘Shall not?’ I queried. ‘Do you have a hand in this, God’s Father Ay?’

‘No, Mahu, but I do have a hand in the saving of Egypt. In putting matters straight, in returning to the old ways. That is my concern, your concern, our concern. No more dreams! No more visions! No new cities or new gods. At the end of this year, perhaps in the spring of next, we shall move back to Thebes where Huy and Maya are preparing for the resurrection of Egypt. Horemheb and Rameses do likewise in Memphis. I ask you one question, Mahu, and one question only. Are you with us? For those who are not with us shall be considered against.’

‘How many people will learn about this?’ I asked.

‘The children of the Kap, no one else.’

‘Apart from you and your daughter?’

‘You have not answered my question, Mahu. Are you with us or are you against us?’ Ay held out his hand, I had no choice but to grasp it.

I made my way home and asked Djarka to accompany me out into the garden pavilion where Ay’s spies and informers would find it difficult to listen and pry. I told him what had happened.

‘Is he dead?’ Djarka asked the same question I had earlier.

‘He could be. He could have been murdered or taken out into the Red Lands and left to wander.’

‘I will ask my people the Sheshnu to make enquiries. It is possible, my Lord Mahu,’ Djarka often used my official title when discussing matters of state, ‘that it is all finished. I have also received visitors from the palace.’ He smiled thinly. ‘We have been instructed to deface any memorial or tomb bearing the inscription of the Lady Khiya. It is to be finished by the end of the month. Anyway, what do you really think?’ he urged. ‘Is it possible that Akhenaten became tired, exhausted?’

I closed my eyes and recalled that young man living so frugally many years ago. I was about to reply when one of our officers burst in.

‘Master, you have a visitor: a man and a young boy.’

Pentju pushed the fellow aside and came into the room. Beside him walked a young lad of about five summers. He was about medium height, his strange, long, egg-shaped head completely shaved except for the side lock falling down over his left ear. He had dark lustrous eyes in a pointed smooth face, generous but small lips. He looked slender in a white robe which covered him from neck to ankle, stout leather sandals on his feet.

‘You know who he is?’ Pentju demanded.

I told the officer to close the door and guard it. Then I took the little fellow and lifted him up. He didn’t even blink but stared solemnly, scrutinising me carefully. I kissed him on each cheek and put him down. Immediately his little hand went into mine.

‘Khiya’s son,’ Djarka whispered, ‘the Prince Tutankhaten.’ I knelt on the floor and made obeisance. Djarka did likewise.

‘You must not do that.’ The boy’s soft hand tapped my head. ‘You must not do that,’ he repeated childishly, head to one side, gazing at me. ‘He told me.’ He pointed at Pentju. ‘No one must do that for a while.’

I poured Pentju a goblet of wine and asked the boy if he wanted anything to eat or drink. The Prince shook his head.

He sat like a little old man on the stool Djarka brought, gazing at us with all the solemnity of a baby owl. He had the look of Akhenaten, certainly the eyes and lips, but his posture and gentleness reminded me of Khiya.

‘Why have you brought him here, Pentju?’

The physician handed over a small carved hippopotamus wrapped in thickened papyrus. ‘Every week,’ Pentju declared, ‘except during the plague, Akhenaten sent his son a present, a small carving, a scarab, an amulet or a ring wrapped in a piece of papyrus.’

I turned the parchment over. On the outside were the words Enk Hetep, which meant ‘I am content’. On the other side, the words to kiss, with the hieroglyphics: an arrow above a head looking downwards at rippled water. ‘Akhenaten made me promise,’ Pentju explained, ‘that I would receive such a gift on the second day of every week. On the outside the words, I am content, on the inside the words to kiss with the hieroglyphics. If I did not receive such a present for three weeks in succession, I was to conclude that he was no longer with us and that his only son was in danger. I was then to open the sealed document he had given me. It is over three weeks since I received this last present. This morning I broke the seal. The instructions were very simple. I was to bring the Prince to you and hand him over to your care.’

I stared at the little boy and felt a deep sadness, bittersweet because, despite what had happened, Akhenaten had, in the end, trusted me more than anyone else. I told Djarka and Pentju to stay while I returned to the house and retrieved the sealed document Akhenaten had given to me. I broke the three seals and unrolled it. The words scrawled under the crudely drawn hieroglyphs caught at my heart.

‘Haynekah Ahitfe: hail to you greater than his father. Mem sen-jay: do not worry. Ra mem pet: the Sun is in the sky. Heket Nebet Nefert, Mahu: all good things to Mahu. Then underneath all this, in a more common hand: Do what you have to, to protect my son. Senb ti: goodbye.’

I destroyed the manuscript and returned to the garden pavilion. I now knew the full reasons Ay had taken me to the palace that day: he not only wanted to test me but guessed that I was one of the few whom Akhenaten would trust with his baby son. Ay wanted to keep me close. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it.

‘Pentju, you know what has happened?’

‘Nothing, except what Djarka has told me.’

‘The mercenaries surrounding your house,’ I demanded. ‘Can they be trusted?’

‘They took an oath of loyalty to Pharaoh himself. They have not been released from that oath.’

‘But they can be bribed, killed or removed,’ I replied bitterly. ‘Djarka, Pentju, you must take this little boy immediately out of the City of the Aten. Take him secretly to Thebes and entrust him to the care of Sobeck. Djarka, you know how to find him. Tell Sobeck that as he loves me, if he wishes to repay his debt, he must treat this boy as his own and keep him safe until I or you, Djarka, ask for him again.’ I crouched down and embraced the boy; he smelt of perfume and honey. I kissed his cheeks. ‘Be brave, little one,’ I hissed. ‘Do whatever these men tell you.’

A short while later, armed with provisions and small bags of gold, silver and precious jewels, Pentju and Djarka left through the side streets for the quayside.

Ay arrived later that day, accompanied by his mercenary Captains.

‘I thought you were with us, Mahu?’

‘God’s Father Ay, of course I am.’

‘Then where is the boy?’

‘He is safe.’

Ay peered over my shoulder. ‘Where are Pentju and Djarka?’

‘They are safe too.’

Ay whistled through his teeth. ‘Where is the Prince Tutankhaten?’ he repeated.

The Captain of his mercenaries drew his sword.

‘He is safe,’ I repeated. ‘In the gardens outside, God’s Father Ay, my mercenaries are also waiting in the shade, bows drawn, arrows notched. Come, friend,’ I added mockingly. ‘I am with you as I was when I rescued Prince Akhenaten from the Temple of Amun.’

My visitor blinked, then glanced away.

‘Moreover,’ I whispered, ‘if I die, God’s Father Ay, so will you. Even if you survive you’ll still never discover where the boy is.’

Ay stepped back, waving a finger in my face.

‘Mahu, the cunning Baboon of the South.’ His hand shot forward in a gesture of friendship.

I clasped it, squeezing just as tight.

‘My friend and my ally.’ He smiled and, spinning on his heel, left the house.

I was never asked again, at least not during that time, the whereabouts of Tutankhaten, Pentju or Djarka. For a few weeks the city was at peace. I was busy collecting my possessions, stowing them away and burning documents. The dance had only just begun. Other children of the Kap visited the City of the Aten. They, too, asked the whereabouts of the Prince and received the same answer. They reminded me of vultures. They arrived, busy men on busy matters, but really they were like desert hyenas picking at a corpse. They were openly astonished by the apparent disappearance of Akhenaten but Rameses’ cynical words summed up the mood of them all: ‘He is gone and the gods be thanked! If he returns, we’ll send him straight back.’

On one thing they were all agreed. ‘Nefertiti will never be accepted. She can call herself what she likes,’ Horemheb snarled over a goblet of wine. ‘Smenkhkare-Ankhkeperure! She can proclaim herself to be the Divine Daughter, or even the Son of Horus, but she does not have the Tuthmosid blood in her veins. She is not of the royal line. She and Akhenaten are twin symptoms of the same disease. The army I command will tolerate her for a while and whatever sweet noises she makes to them or the great ones of Thebes but, in the end, she must step down.’

Ay accepted this with equanimity or, at least, appeared to do so. In the first month of the summer season he brought messages to us all, the children of the Kap, that an important meeting of the Royal Circle had been called in the Great Palace of the Aten. He made it clear that all were expected to attend.

I offered my house to Horemheb, Rameses, Maya and Huy, and organised my cooks to prepare a sumptuous meal. I did this at the request of Ay whom I called ‘my guest of honour’. The chefs surpassed themselves, but the meal was eaten in silence. We were all apprehensive of what would happen the next day. Horemheb and Rameses had brought their own retinues, encamped down near the quayside, whilst Maya and Huy had been accompanied on their river journey by two bargeloads of mercenaries. Ay arrived late, face unshaven, dressed in simple robes covered by a dark cloak. I heard the clink of armour as his mercenaries camped outside in the garden. The Viper, all agitated, refused the garland of honour but asked me to shutter the windows and close the doors. We gathered round him. For a while Ay just sat on the cushions, face in his hands and, when he took his fingers away, his cheeks were wet with tears.

‘The Royal Circle,’ he sobbed and rubbed his face as he tried to control his feelings. ‘Tomorrow morning you must not attend the meeting of the Royal Circle. You know the protocol. No one is allowed to carry weapons or bring armed followers to the sacred precincts.’

‘What?’ Rameses rose at a half-crouch.

‘My daughter, Great Queen Nefertiti,’ Ay wetted his lips, ‘has planned your deaths.’

His announcement was met with shocked silence.

‘You have proof?’ Huy murmured.

Ay dug inside his robe and brought out a small scroll of papyrus. ‘You know,’ he added wearily, ‘how she has ordered that Khiya’s name be erased from every monument: even the lady’s tomb is to be ransacked and vilified. She plans to make a clean sweep.’

‘How do you know this?’ Horemheb demanded, clutching Rameses’ shoulder and forcing him to sit down.

Ay rubbed his face. ‘Because she thinks I am her ally. She claims she has the support of Meryre, Tutu and the rest. Above all, the total unswerving loyalty of Manetho and his mercenaries. The council chambers will be locked and guarded. Certain of the Royal Circle, including you, have been marked down for death: to drink poison or lose your heads.’

I snatched up the scroll. ‘It bears the names of those who are going to die,’ Ay explained.

I unrolled the papyrus. I am not too sure if the others heard my groan. All I knew was a deep sense of anguish, a numbing coldness followed by an urge to scream and yell. The names were all listed: Horemheb, Rameses, Maya, Huy, Pentju, Prince Tutankhaten, Sobeck, Djarka and a host of others. What caught my throat like a cold hard hand was that my name headed the rest.

‘She revealed this to me two days ago,’ Ay explained. ‘She intends, as she puts it, to make a clean sweep. She will depict you as the real supporters of Akhenaten then move back in glory with her eldest daughter Meritaten to the Malkata Palace at Thebes. The Aten will become one god amongst many. The city here will be allowed to rot whilst the worship of Amun is restored.’

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why are you betraying your own daughter?’

‘Very simple, Mahu. Because she is betraying Egypt. Oh yes, you can all die but ask Horemheb here — within a month, there will be civil war.’

‘I’ll kill the bitch!’ Rameses snarled, picking up a knife from the table.

Again Horemheb forced him to sit down, ordering him to keep silent.

‘What do you propose, God’s Father Ay?’ Maya demanded.

‘What he thinks is no longer important,’ Horemheb declared quietly. ‘You have soldiers, my lord Ay? So do we. Mahu has his mercenaries. Our troops camp down at the riverside.’ He rose to his feet and walked to a window. ‘Tonight Manetho and his gang will be disarmed. The Lady Meritaten must be put under arrest. She is guilty, my lord Ay?’

God’s Father Ay nodded, biting back a sob.

‘The Lady Meritaten will be invited to take poison,’ Horemheb continued.

No one disagreed. A short discussion took place about Meryre and Tutu. It was agreed they’d be given the chance to purge themselves.

‘And the Lady Nefertiti?’ I asked. I was on the verge of tears. All I could think of was that beautiful face — blue eyes glinting with mischief, red hair falling down, her soft touch and sweet words.

‘She must be confronted with her crimes,’ Huy declared.

‘She must take the poison,’ Maya finished the sentence.

I felt so chilled I started to shiver. Ay was staring at me quizzically but Horemheb came over, picked up a shawl and wrapped it round my shoulders.

‘Are you in agreement, God’s Father?’ I asked.

‘Are we all in agreement?’ Ay replied.

One by one their hands went up; they all sat looking at me.

‘I am sacrificing a daughter and a grand-daughter,’ Ay whispered hoarsely. ‘Those who are not with us are against us. Mahu, what is your answer?’

I was going to refuse but my eye caught that list lying on the table, my name emblazoned on the top, and beneath it Djarka’s, Sobeck’s and Prince Tutankhaten’s. Slowly my hand went up. Horemheb crossed to his belongings and brought back knuckle-bones, clearing the table with one sweep of his hands.

‘We will throw,’ he declared. ‘That’s what we used to do when we were children of the Kap.’

We each threw the knuckle-bones. My score was lowest. They all looked at me grimly.

‘You are the one,’ Horemheb declared, ‘to give her the poison!’

I clutched the knuckle-bones in my hand so tightly they bit into the softness of my palm. Rameses served some wine and we moved onto other business, the deployment of troops and what would occur afterwards.

‘It shall be proclaimed,’ Ay now assumed responsibility, ‘that Akhenaten, Nefertiti and Lady Meritaten have gone into the West. The vision of the Aten was built on sand and not meant to last. We shall return to Thebes and bring with us the glory of Amun. We shall send messages to every corner of the Kingdom of the Two Lands that the might and power of Egypt has been restored. We will make the People of the Nine Bows tremble under our feet.’

‘And you will be Pharaoh, God’s Father Ay?’ I asked.

‘Prince Tutankhaten will be proclaimed as the legitimate successor to his father,’ Ay replied quickly, ‘betrothed to the Princess Ankhespaaten, but their names will proclaim the changes which will affect all Egypt. From this day forward they will be known as Tutankhamun and Ankhesenamun. However,’ he added dryly, his eyes never leaving mine, ‘both children are unversed in statecraft. Until the Prince reaches maturity, all power will be vested in a Council of State. Everyone here will be a vital member …’

In that chamber with the oil lamps guttering, the shadows dancing against the walls and the food growing cold whilst the wine-cups were refilled, all the glory of Akhenaten, all the splendour of Nefertiti crumbled to dust. Each of us took the sacred oath, hand on heart, the other stretched out to swear what we were party to. Eventually they all left. I just sat and drank while the memories poured back. I fell asleep, half-listening to the sounds of chariots and armed men moving in the streets below. Rameses kicked me awake just before dawn. He grinned down at me and pushed a small carob-seed loaf into my hand. He made me eat that and drink the cold beer he had brought. Then I washed my face, put a robe around me and followed him out into the streets.

Horemheb and Rameses had planned well. Regular troops, together with mercenaries, now controlled the roads and avenues, the entrance to every public building, temple and palace. Martial law had been declared. All citizens, on pain of death, were confined to their homes. Only the occasional scavenging dog would nose at a stiffening corpse of one of Manetho’s mercenaries or lick the drying pools of blood. The palace, too, was deserted. Horemheb and Rameses’ officers guarded the entrances and patrolled the grounds. I passed a courtyard where executions had been carried out. Manetho’s head was already impaled on a pole. Other heads lay about whilst corpses were being heaped in corners before being thrown into carts. This included not only Manetho’s mercenaries but also courtiers, scribes, officials and, from what Rameses had told me, even a few ladies-in-waiting who had tried to resist. Inside the palace corpses were also being dragged out of rooms. As we crossed a garden Ay’s mercenaries were organising prisoners, pushing and shoving them up against the wall. The line of men, naked except for their loincloths, were beaten and abused. A name would be called, one of the men dragged forward and forced to kneel. I looked away but I still heard the hiss of the axe or club, a scream of pain and the thud of the falling head or corpse.

Nefertiti was waiting for me in a small chamber. She was sitting in the centre on a pile of cushions dressed in a simple white gown. In the corner a lady-in-waiting huddled, face in hands, sobbing noisily. Just before I entered the chamber Maya handed me a gold-encrusted cup. He glanced at me sadly.

‘I know what you feel, Mahu, but the poison is quick. Meritaten has gone before her.’

I asked for the girl to be removed and knelt down before Nefertiti, clutching the goblet in my hand. Oh, they will tell you how she had aged, how her face was lined, her body fat, how she had shaven her hair to appear more like a man. I can’t remember any of that. I sat facing the Beautiful One who had knelt beside me in a fragrant orchard, whose face constantly haunted my dreams, and still does. She was at peace, her blue eyes calm, slightly red-rimmed from crying.

‘Mahu.’ My name came in a whisper. ‘Mahu, I know why you are here. The soothsayer told me, remember? How I would die at the hands of a friend?’

I couldn’t move. I grasped the cup and tried to move forward, but all I could do was stare into her eyes and feel the hideous pain in my heart. There was a brazier glowing but I felt as cold as death.

‘Mahu,’ she smiled slightly, ‘at least I am dying in the presence of a friend.’

‘Akhenaten,’ I replied, ‘my lady, where is Akhenaten?’

‘Mahu, I do not know.’ The smile widened. ‘And even if I did, I would not tell you or,’ her glance fell away, ‘or the other hyenas.’

Before I could stop her she snatched the cup from my hand, toasted me quickly and drained it. I watched some of the purple drops course down her chin along that lovely neck. She let out a long sigh and threw the cup to one side.

‘Senebti — farewell, Mahu!’

She sat for a while, head down; when she glanced up her eyes were full of tears. She began to shiver.

‘Mahu, please, don’t let me die alone.’

I grasped her outstretched hand and pulled her close. Her trembling grew, her body shaking so I clasped her in my arms and pressed her head down onto my shoulder.

‘Why?’ I whispered. ‘Why my name …?’

She pulled her head back. ‘I did not draw up any list,’ she gasped. ‘And even if I had, your name would not have been on it.’ She went to pull away, but I pulled her back. I couldn’t say anything. I just waited for the trembling to stop.

She gasped once or twice, coughed as if clearing her throat, then she fell slack. I gently disengaged. I was glad her eyes were closed, the white face more youthful in death. I carefully laid her back on the cushions, rose and knocked the cup away. I opened the door of the chamber. Ay and the children of the Kap stood in a semi-circle facing me.

‘She has gone,’ I declared.

I kicked the door shut behind me. ‘It is finished!’