An Evil Spirit Out of the West

Chapter 9

The Khonsu corps were replaced with a company of the Sacred Band, war veterans taken from their duties in the temples of Karnak and Luxor. This particular corps, their shields depicting the insignia of Amun-Ra, were under the direct command of Rahimere, Mayor of Waset, the city of the Sceptre, Thebes the Splendid. Rahimere came to the Palace of the Aten gloriously bedecked in his chains and necklaces of office. My master, Ay, Nefertiti, myself and Snefru met him in the hall of audience. Rahimere processed in, surrounded by his officials, scribes and shaven-headed priests. There was little love lost between Akhenaten and this pompous Mayor. My master and his entourage remained seated. Rahimere stood, one foot forward, one hand clutching his robe as if he was lecturing, as Ay later described it, the dung-collectors of Thebes. He was a pompous little man with bulbous eyes, a snub nose and a strident voice.

‘I am here …’

‘How dare you!’ Ay’s voice cut across the room like a whiplash. He got slowly to his feet. ‘Are you not, sir, in the presence of a Prince of the Blood? You come into this hall and show no courtesies. You bring no gifts. You offer no salutation.’

Rahimere’s chin quivered, eyes darting to the left and right.

‘You may withdraw,’ my master coolly declared. ‘If you wish, Your Excellency, you may withdraw and perhaps visit another time,’ he raised a hand, ‘when you remember the courtesies and protocol befitting a Prince of the Blood, Beloved Son of the Body of the Divine One.’

Rahimere reached his decision. Gasping and muttering, he fell to his knees: the rest of the retinue had no choice but to follow suit. He did not nose the ground but bent his head. Rahimere quivered in fury. I caught the angry glances of his entourage whilst I am sure they heard my master counting slowly under his breath. He kept them waiting until he had reached twenty, then he clapped his hands.

‘You may rise,’ he declared sweetly.

The Mayor and his company did so. Some of them were old men in snow-white pleated robes and glowing collars of office. They represented the priests of Amun, Akhenaten’s sworn enemies: so overcome with malice, they had forgotten the courtesies. They shuffled their sandalled feet.

‘If I had known you were coming,’ Ay declared, ‘we would have prepared some wine, bread and meat befitting the occasion, but you arrive like bailiffs.’

‘I apologise,’ Rahimere mopped his face with the sleeve of his gown, ‘but this matter is urgent. A courier should have been despatched.’ He looked angrily over his shoulder.

‘Why, what is the matter?’ Ay asked. ‘Has war been declared? Are the Libyans marching on Thebes?’

‘No, the archers will be withdrawn,’ Rahimere gabbled, ‘as will be the marines from the river.’

‘Is that all?’ Ay sat down on Akhenaten’s right. ‘Is that the urgency of this meeting? To invade our presence because a corps of archers has been withdrawn together with barges of marines berthed at the quayside, a mile from the Nose of the Gazelle?’ Ay turned his head and stared back in mock disbelief at Akhenaten, who just clicked his tongue noisily. Nefertiti did not help matters by starting to arrange the wild flowers in her red hair, singing a song beneath her breath.

‘I … er,’ Rahimere had totally misjudged the situation. ‘I bring you news: they are to be replaced by a corps of the Sacred Band.’ Akhenaten laughed. Nefertiti giggled. Now it was Ay’s turn to click his tongue and shake his head in disapproval. Rahimere’s dark eyes glowed with anger, yet he could do nothing except make empty gestures.

‘Ah,’ he added spitefully, ‘this is important. The officers in charge,’ now Rahimere’s eyes slid to me, ‘will be commanded by former children of the Kap. I believe you know them?’

‘Ah, our good friends.’ Akhenaten clapped his hands like a child. ‘Horemheb and Rameses.’

‘Huy will be their scribe,’ Rahimere continued, ‘Pentju their physician and Meryre their chaplain.’ He smiled falsely. ‘We thought it best if your former friends …’ he let the words hang in the air.

‘Guard me!’ Akhenaten called out harshly. ‘Are they here to guard me, protect me or to spy on me?’

‘Your Excellency,’ Rahimere blustered. ‘The Divine One …’

‘May he live for evermore,’ Akhenaten’s voice thrilled with sarcasm.

‘The Divine One wishes you to be protected and safe, to keep you close to his heart as he does your elder brother.’

Rahimere had made his point. Akhenaten could claim whatever he wished but Tuthmosis, the Crown Prince, the Divine One’s heir was the true power in the land.

‘Anything else?’ Akhenaten leaned forward and plucked a grape from the table before him. He didn’t wait for a reply but popped the grape into his mouth and turned, plumping the cushions as if they were not comfortable enough. ‘Anything else?’ he called out, his back still turned to Rahimere.

My master looked up, caught my gaze and winked.

‘The Divine One sends his salutation and blessing.’

‘And do give him mine in grateful return.’ Akhenaten turned back, picked up a bowl of grapes and passed them to Nefertiti, then to Ay. He glanced up, ‘Oh, you are still here? Excellency, it was most kind of you to come.’ He raised a finger. ‘You may now withdraw.’

The Mayor, the priests and officials did so, faces mottled with anger, eyes blazing with hatred. Ay went to speak, but Akhenaten raised his hand. Suddenly from the courtyard came the sound of furious barking, screams and cries, the lash of whips, the shouts of servants and the braying of a horn. Akhenaten burst out laughing and turned to Snefru standing beside him.

‘What are my hunting dogs doing there? You know they are full of energy.’

‘You told me to bring them down, Master.’ Snefru fell to his knees, hands to his face.

‘Oh yes, so I did.’ Akhenaten grinned. ‘Poor Rahimere! To walk straight into a pack of dogs ready for the chase and full of energy. I understand he doesn’t like dogs.’

Nefertiti and Ay joined in the laughter. Snefru was dismissed and I was ordered to kneel before them. Akhenaten, one hand raised, head slightly turned, listened to the sounds in the courtyard recede as order was restored.

‘Rahimere will not forget his visit here.’ His smile faded. ‘So they are sending Horemheb, Rameses and the rest, eh? Guards and spies.’

‘Spies!’ Nefertiti spat the word out, no laughter in her eyes and face. ‘They are here,’ she commented, ‘to act as our friends, to be entertained, to be able to come and go as they wish; to listen to the chatter and gossip of the servants.’ She laid her head on Akhenaten’s shoulder, rolling back her beautiful eyes. ‘But we’ll see,’ she added impishly.

Five days later the Sacred Band arrived: three hundred men under the command of Horemheb, now a Major, and his ever-present faithful Lieutenant, Rameses. Nefertiti immediately issued invitations to both of them and others, including Maya from the House of Secrets, to a splendid banquet in the Hall of Audience. She personally arranged the menu, supervised the cooking, and selected the wines. Any delicacy the palace could offer was served: the tenderest goose, rich spiced lamb, dishes of vegetables, sweetmeats and savouries to be served at the end of the meal. On the evening of the banquet, she appeared as the very embodiment of grace and beauty, garbed in a sheathlike dress from head to toe in the purest white linen, with gold, a shawl of shimmering jewels across her shoulders. She wore no wig; her magnificent hair flared out like a brilliant cloud, fastened with miniature brooches and clasps studded with gems and other precious stones. Earrings glinted in her lobes. A silver gorget circled her throat and a pectoral of shimmering cornelian, carved in the form of flower petals, rested against her chest. Armlets and bracelets covered with precious stones dazzled in an almost spiritual glowing light. Beside her Akhenaten was dressed in a robe of glory, a thick braided wig on his head. He wore no jewellery, as if not to rival his wife’s magnificence. We were all welcomed into the Hall of Audience. Its walls had been freshly painted and bedecked with streamers of blue and white, and polished tables inlaid with ebony were arranged along the centre, surrounded by cushions of costly fabrics.

The food was served on precious dishes which caught the glow of the countless alabaster oil jars. No musicians, dancers, conjurers or temple girls were present. Nefertiti did not wish any distraction in her seduction of these new arrivals. Horemheb delivered the official salutation, Akhenaten made the speech of reply. We sat down on the cushions, Horemheb and Rameses either side of Akhenaten and Nefertiti at the top. Everyone was there. Huy, resplendent in his robe of office, was now thickset and square-jawed. Pentju, very much the learned physician, carried a small staff, its end carved in the shape of a ram; an amulet round his neck bore the emblem of the Wadjet, the ever-seeing eye of Horus. Meryre was in his priest’s robes, a stole about his neck. He reeked, as Huy wryly observed, of incense, slaughtered flesh and sanctimony. Opposite me sat Maya, his plump face and round eyes heavily painted like a woman’s — even his fingernails and toenails were carmined a deep red. He greeted me cordially enough and immediately launched into a torrent of whispered pithy comments about Horemheb and Rameses.

We all acted as if we met frequently, yet there was no hiding our self-consciousness and the almost tangible wariness of each other. Of course, Nefertiti transformed the event. All of us were fascinated by her. She sat like the minx she was, a Queen in every sense, gracious and kind, charming yet haughty so when she did smile the recipient rejoiced at his good fortune. Even Maya, driven more by envy than lust, did not take his eyes off her. Beside her Akhenaten revelled in his wife’s beauty, proud yet amused by my companions’ reaction. During the banquet Nefertiti made an innocent, pretty speech of welcome. To all intents and appearances she was mouthing empty phrases — but in fact she was suborning them. She began by complimenting them all on their careers.

‘If I were a Queen of Egypt,’ she laughed mockingly, ‘you, companions of my Beloved since his early days,’ her eyes danced with mischief, ‘loyal friends, boon companions — oh yes, if I were Great Queen you would sit in the Sacred Circle, be our counsellors, advisers, chamberlains and Generals.’ She paused, just for a while, until the merriment and laughter faded. ‘More importantly,’ she continued, ‘you would be his friends, my friends. Of course, you will be, you shall be.’ On and on she talked, emphasising her points with those lovely hands, moving her head to take each and every one of us into her gaze. She finished with toasts of loyalty, but her words had sowed the seeds and her charm would nurture them. Ay joined us later in the meal, sitting down at the end between myself and Maya. He, too, acted his part. Innocent, wide-eyed questions about Maya’s service in the House of Secrets deliberately made my companion uncomfortable. I wasn’t surprised when he announced that he would like to withdraw to savour the cool night air. Ay winked at me to follow and, as I left, Ay moved further up the table to his next quarry — Pentju, Meryre and Huy.

Outside the door Maya clapped me on the shoulder. ‘I hoped you’d join me.’

We walked across the courtyard into the garden. The perfume of the flowers was cloyingly sweet under a starlit sky. Maya took out his fan and wafted it. I noticed he carried a little pouch strapped to his left wrist. He didn’t walk in his thick-soled sandals but rather swayed like a woman, moving slowly, swinging his hips as he fanned himself prettily.

‘“Beauty has its own face. It is she”.’ Maya brought the fan up to his face, staring coldly at me over the rim as he quoted the poem. ‘“Loveliness has its own form. It is hers.” A remarkable woman.’ He simpered.

‘Do you say that yourself,’ I asked, ‘or is it what you have learned from others in the House of Secrets?’

Maya snapped the fan closed and put it back into its little pouch. He nodded towards the lotus-covered Pool of Purity shimmering in the moonlight. ‘You have your bodyguard here, Mahu?’ he asked archly. ‘Am I to go for a swim again?’

‘No.’ I patted him on the shoulder, gesturing that we walk on. ‘Were Imri and his Kushite spies working for the House of Secrets?’

‘I don’t know,’ Maya whispered. ‘They could have been spies, but not for the House of Secrets. They did not report to God’s Father Hotep.’ He paused and chuckled at my surprise. ‘Oh yes, clever Baboon. Imri and his companions may have been spies, but for whom?’ He hunched his shoulders prettily. ‘I don’t know. Were they murdered, Mahu?’

‘They were spies.’

‘I don’t deny that. What you’ve got to ask yourself though, is for whom?’

I curbed the panic seething within me.

‘And Aunt Isithia?’ I asked. ‘You received my message?’

‘Oh yes. Aunt Isithia,’ Maya purred back, ‘is a most interesting case. A former caster of horoscopes though now she is forbidden to meddle any further. You do have an interesting relative, Mahu. She may not cast horoscopes but she is a keen hand with the whip,’ he blinked, ‘an expert in inflicting delicious pain.’

‘What do you mean?’

Maya laughed behind his hand. ‘You know what I mean. Do you think you were taken into the Kap for your looks and your breeding? Oh, I’ve been through your records and hers. Isithia wanted you out of the way for many reasons. She still enjoys the protection of the Divine One. She instructs some of the lesser concubines, the Royal Ornaments, in certain arts of love: techniques, perhaps, which may come as a surprise to them but certainly not to her.’

‘Could she have learned about Sobeck?’

‘Possibly.’

I scratched my cheek. ‘So, Aunt Isithia wanted me out of the way because she hated my mother, she hated me, she saw me as a burden and she had other interests?’

‘Correct,’ Maya simpered.

‘Which would become difficult to pursue as I grew older?’

‘You speak with true voice, Mahu.’

‘And now?’

Maya started as a bird of the night swooped low: a black, fast-moving shadow under the starlit sky.

‘And now?’ I repeated.

‘Your aunt is well-protected. She has highranking friends amongst the priests of Amun-Ra. Why, Mahu,’ he mocked, ‘don’t you visit her?’

‘You know the reason I don’t, as you know why she doesn’t visit me. Well, not for years.’ I chucked Maya under the chin. ‘Come, lovely one,’ I whispered, ‘did Imri ever visit her?’

‘Perhaps,’ Maya smiled, ‘but he also visited the Crown Prince Tuthmosis.’

‘So it was Tuthmosis,’ I stated.

Maya stepped back as if to hide his face. ‘Now you have it, Mahu. Your Prince’s brother is very frightened.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of the stories.’ Maya squinted up at the night sky. ‘That his brother, this Grotesque, has been touched by the gods, chosen for some special task. His marriage to that beauty will not help. She is unique,’ Maya mused, ‘with that reddish hair and light blue eyes. Such strange colouring. I heard rumours that they are not true Egyptians but descendants of Wanderers …’

‘Who is a true Egyptian?’ I asked. ‘And what does the House of Secrets know about Princess Nefertiti and her father?’

Maya pulled a face. ‘Very little. They have been concealed like arrows in a quiver.’

‘Who by?’

‘The great Queen Tiye.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘it’s now evident. About the Princess,’ he continued, ‘we know nothing. Ay has a record as a capable administrator, a skilled commander of chariotry.’ Maya tapped his sandalled foot and turned as if to go back. I caught his arm.

‘Why do you still watch Aunt Isithia? Oh, I know about the horoscopes, and her stay in the Chains in the House of Secrets.’

Maya stepped so close I could smell his perfume.

‘She’s linked to something more sinister,’ he whispered. ‘Sometimes the Divine One suspects that the Grotesque, your master, is not his son.’ He lifted his fingers for silence. ‘He cannot bring himself to believe he is the father of such a man.’

‘What? But …?’

‘Shush.’ Maya pressed his fingers against his lips. ‘Listen, Mahu. Have you ever heard of the prophet Ipurer? He lived about five hundred years ago. He prophesied a violent revolution, of everything being turned on its head, of a Messiah who would come to shepherd his people and whose presence would be,’ Maya squinted, ‘what is the line? — “cooling to the flame”.’ He swung the little pouch on his wrist. ‘The prophecy finishes with these lines: “Truly he shall smite evil. Where is he to stay? Has he come or does he already sleep and walk amongst you?”’

‘Legends! Superstition!’

‘The Magnificent One is superstitious, Mahu. And his fears are shared by the priests of Amun. Can’t you see how it goes? The Divine One is confronted with a sickly and ungainly grotesque about whom dark things are uttered. Fertile ground for our priests who also want him gone, who can hint that perhaps he is the Messiah, prophesied by Ipurer. Isithia may still have her uses in concocting a poison to solve the problem. Ah well, so much for the great ones, eh?’

‘So, Aunt Isithia still distils her potions?’

‘And offers instructions to others.’

‘She’s an old bitch!’

‘A true murderess,’ Maya replied. ‘The blood of her own kin stains her hands.’

‘What?’

‘I came across a police report. A few scribbles. Isithia truly hated your mother. She may not have supplied the best medicine for her, when she was recovering from your birth.’

‘I …’

‘Can’t you speak, Mahu?’

In truth I felt a hideous coldness, a clenching in my stomach.

‘But, but my father would have …?’

‘Your father never suspected. Many women don’t survive childbirth. When Aunt Isithia was in the cells she was baited with this.’

‘Why wasn’t the matter pursued?’

‘It was nothing much. Information laid anonymously to the House of Secrets, the tittle-tattle of servants, studied and filed away.’

I recalled Dedi and her whispered hoarse comments in that darkened garden so many years ago.

‘Well, well, Mahu, will you take revenge? If you do,’ he urged, ‘do not take it now.’

I had drunk many goblets of wine yet I felt sober. I wanted to run away, leave the palace and go out to Aunt Isithia’s house, clutch her scrawny throat and confront her.

‘Not now, Mahu.’ Maya clutched my wrist. ‘You have learned well. Hide your face, hide your feelings, hide your hand. Strike when you must. Wait for your day. Stay now,’ he urged, ‘and I’ll tell you more.’

‘About what?’

‘Tell Ay to be careful.’

‘Of whom? Spies?’

‘No, assassins.’ Maya peered up at me. ‘Ay is seen as Queen Tiye’s principal adviser and now as your master’s.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Oh, Mahu,’ Maya smiled, ‘assassins don’t wear proclamations round their necks. They don’t send you pretty little letters telling you they are coming.’

I grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him close.

‘Why are you telling me this, Maya? How do I know you are not just dirtying the pool? You have a talent for mischief.’

‘Sobeck.’

‘Oh come!’ I snarled, pressing more heavily on his shoulders.

‘Sobeck’s gone.’

‘No.’ I withdrew my hands.

‘He escaped.’ Maya looked quickly to the left and right. ‘You know how it is, Mahu, out in those prison cages. They are chained, they exist on water, food that’s grown there, anything their guards may hunt as well as the charity of Sand Dwellers and Desert Wanderers. If they can escape, what can they take with them? Anyway, Sobeck took his chances. He went out in the Red Lands. They found his corpse, the skeleton picked dry. They only recognised him by the manacles still round his wrists and the clay tablet lying nearby. He had stolen a knife and a water bottle; both were gone. The back of his head was stoved in.’

I groaned and turned away. ‘Poor Sobeck!’

‘Nonsense.’ Maya came up behind me. I whirled round. ‘Think, Mahu, Sobeck was a warrior. He’d escape with a dagger and a water bottle. Libyans don’t creep up and smash you on the back of the head. They stand far away and pick you off with a barbed arrow. No such arrow was found nearby. Don’t you see, Mahu? Sobeck killed someone, took his clothing, the water bottle and knife, then put the manacles round his victim, together with the prison clay tablet. He’s escaped.’

I heard a bird screech. I walked over to a bush, plucked the flower growing there and sniffed its fragrance. My mind teemed with thoughts, images and memories.

‘Sobeck will return to Thebes,’ Maya continued, following me across. ‘You know he will, Mahu. He’ll come back to the city. He’ll look for his friends: the only one he can trust is you. If he survives the desert he will contact you. He will ask for your help. This is the price you pay for what I have told you. Say to Sobeck that Maya had nothing to do with this treachery, that Maya loved him, still does and always will.’ He clasped my wrist and sauntered off into the night.

I went and sat by the Pool of Purity: the blue lotus blossoms were now open, the air sweet with their perfume. I couldn’t believe what Maya had said about Aunt Isithia, Sobeck, and Tuthmosis. I wanted to make sense of it, put it all together. I heard a footfall, but didn’t turn.

‘You learned a lot, Mahu?’ Ay squatted down beside me.

‘A great deal.’ I told him about everything except Sobeck. Ay, of course, was not fooled.

‘Why should that little bag of secrets confide in you?’

‘We once had a friend in common.’

‘I didn’t know you were that way inclined, Mahu.’

‘I am not but he is.’

‘What will you do about Isithia?’ Ay asked.

‘What do you advise?’

‘Wait!’ Ay got up and gestured at me to follow. ‘Wait, Mahu, as I will. So our enemies have turned to murder: do you know who the assassin could be?’ I shook my head. ‘I do.’ Ay grinned in the darkness. ‘But he, too, will have to wait.’

He looped his arm through mine. ‘I love going down to the Nile, and watching the black and white kingfishers dive and swoop. They move so fast, you have to concentrate. Sometimes I don’t see any at all and I wonder where they have gone. So, when they return, I am even more curious.’

‘Have you come,’ I asked, ‘to talk about kingfishers in the dead of night?’

‘The party is ending.’ Ay turned towards where the light could be glimpsed pouring through the windows of the palace. ‘Your friends have eaten and drunk more than they should. They are being helped out by their servants. Horemheb, however, marched off as if he was on the parade ground. We will have to watch him, Mahu, him and Rameses. Two hearts that beat as one, and cunning hearts at that.’

‘The kingfisher?’ I queried.

‘Ah, yes.’ Ay whistled under his breath. ‘The great scribe Huy brought an invitation. In a few days’ time, as you know, the Divine One celebrates the Festival of Opet where he moves from the Temple of Amun-Ra at Karnak down to Luxor. A glorious, triumphant procession as Pharaoh communes with the gods.’

‘The Kingfisher?’ I asked again, though I half-expected Ay’s reply.

‘The Divine One has moved as swiftly. He has graciously invited his second son to take part in the official festivities.’

‘And has our master accepted?’

Ay clapped me on the shoulder.

‘He has no choice, Mahu, and neither do we.’

The great sweeping avenue, lined either side by golden-headed sphinxes, marked the great processional route linking the temples of Karnak and Luxor. On that particular occasion, the last day of Opet, it was flanked by a living, thick hedge of people. Thebes had emptied itself of its inhabitants and the crowds were swollen by visitors from every city in the kingdom as well as beyond on this glorious, sunfilled day when Pharaoh showed his face to his subjects who revelled in the glory and might of Egypt.

The royal procession was led by the principal War-Chariot Squadron: the electrum silver and gold of their carriages dazzling in the light. The horses, milk-white Syrians, handpicked from the royal stables, were gorgeously apparelled: dark blue plumes nodded between their ears, their black harness embossed with glittering silver and gold medallions vied with the blue, red and silver of the javelin sheaths and arrow quivers strapped to the chariots. The horses moved slowly, almost like dancers, their drivers, the most skilled in Egypt, guiding them carefully, all moving in harmony with each other. Between the chariots marched the Standard Bearers holding the insignia of that particular squadron, the lustrous jewel-encrusted ram’s head of Amun-Ra. Behind the chariots, in solemn march, came the high officials of the army and court; garbed in white robes, they wore plaited wigs on their heads to which ostrich feathers, dyed a myriad of colours, had been attached. Each of these highranking notables carried their symbol of office: a gold-embossed fan. Ranks of infantry followed these, veterans from every part of the Empire marching in unison dressed in blue and gold head-dresses and white waistcloths. They carried spears and ceremonial shields also emblazoned with the insignia of Amun and were flanked by lines of archers, quivers on their backs, bows in their hands.

The sound of that massed march almost deafened the music of the pipes, the rattling of the long war drums, the clash of cymbals and the blast from the trumpets and conch horns of the military band. Clouds of fragrance billowed up as the shaven heads, the priests of every rank, garbed in their white robes, shoulders draped with jaguar and leopard skins, walked slowly backwards, faces toward the royal palanquins bearing Pharaoh Amenhotep the Magnificent and his Great Queen and Wife Tiye. Hundreds of these priests scented the air with gusts of pure incense as the temple girls, visions of beauty in their long, voluptuous wigs and diaphanous robes, danced to the rattle of the sistra whilst others sent thousands of scented flower petals whirling through the air.

In the most gorgeous of palanquins, its curtain pulled aside, slouched the Magnificent One on a throne of gold made more beautiful by the inlaid jewels along its arms and sides. Amenhotep was garbed in the robes of glory: these still couldn’t hide his corpulent body with its sagging breasts and paunch. He wore the Red and White Crowns of Upper and Lower Egypt, the flail and rod in his hands held against the Nenes, the precious holy tunic beneath his Robe of Glory. He sat, one elbow on the arm of the throne, glaring sternly before him as his subjects cheered, the more devout falling to their knees to press their foreheads against the ground. Pharaoh was moving in all his glory. Around his brow was coiled the Uraeus, the lunging cobra, the protector of Egypt and the defender of Pharaoh; the snake symbolised the fire and force Egypt might loose against any who troubled her. On either side of the imperial palanquin walked the highranking officers — those who were allowed into the private chambers of Pharaoh. Each carried a huge, pink-dyed ostrich plume drenched in cassia, myrrh and frankincense to keep the air sweet as well as to waft away the dust and flies, not to mention the sweat and smells of the massed cheering crowds kept in line by stern-faced foot soldiers.

Slightly behind Amenhotep came Queen Tiye in her palanquin, her perfumed body drenched with sweat between the robe of feathers which covered her from head to toe. The robe was fashioned from the glowing plumage of exotic birds. Beneath the heavy crown displaying the horns and plumes of Hathor, Tiye’s face was smiling and sweet. Unlike her husband, the Queen turned every so often to the left and right to acknowledge the cheering crowds. Next walked Crown Prince Tuthmosis, Akhenaten slightly behind him. Both wore crown-like rounded hats, jewel-studded with silver tassels hanging down the back. They were dressed alike in pleated linen robes, resplendent in glorious necklaces, pendants, bracelets and rings, their faces painted, eyes ringed with dark green kohl. Each Prince was ringed by fan-bearers, flunkies and incense-waving priests. Tuthmosis carried a staff, its gilded top carved in the shape of a falcon. Akhenaten rested on a cane inlaid with ebony and silver, a personal gift from Ay. They both walked barefoot, imperial sandal-carriers trotting behind, holding their footwear for whenever they needed it.

Tuthmosis was greeted with fresh bursts of cheering but, as I walked, well behind the legion of shaven heads, I caught the murmur of the crowds as they noticed Akhenaten, the King’s other son, paraded for the first time in front of Pharaoh’s people. Exclamations of surprise, cries of wonderment, as well as mocking laughter were audible across the avenue. Whoever had arranged the procession had been very clever. Tuthmosis walked so Akhenaten, too, had to overcome his disability and process under the blazing sun with as much dignity as he could muster. Nefertiti had not been invited — a subtle insult. She would have certainly distracted and pleased the crowds, but the invitation, carrying the personal cartouche of Amenhotep, had made no mention of her so she was compelled to stay at the Palace of the Aten. She’d disguised her anger behind smiles whilst she carefully instructed Akhenaten on how he was to walk and bear himself.

‘The sun will be hot,’ she had warned, ‘try not to wear sandals. Shift your weight to the cane Ay will give you. Neither look to the left nor the right. But be careful — do not react.’

‘To what?’ Akhenaten asked softly.

Nefertiti glanced away. ‘To whatever happens,’ she murmured.

She had taken me aside out in the gardens, walking up and down, that beautiful body tense with fury. She reminded me of the Goddess Bastet, the Cat Goddess who walks alone. Nefertiti strode backwards and forwards; now and again she would unfold her arms, fingers moving, the hennaed nails glittering like the claws of an angry cheetah. I could tell from her breathing how the anger seethed within her. At last she calmed herself and stood over me as I sat by the edge of a pool. She pressed a perfumed finger against my lips, moving it up so the nail dug into the end of my nose, blue eyes ice-cold.

‘Take great care, Mahu. My Beloved is in your hands.’

I had done my best or at least tried to. The Festival of Opet had been a long exhausting procession of public festivities as the God Amun-Ra, his wife Mut and their son Khonsu were taken from their darkened shrines at Karnak and carried the one and a half miles to the riverside Temple of Luxor and back. Processions by road, processions by river. The imperial barges, resplendent in their paintwork, prows carved in the shape of hawks’ heads, moved slowly up and down the river surrounded by a myriad of craft. At night banquets and receptions by torchlight and oil lamps took place, sacrifices offered amidst clouds of incense. The array of troops and the solemn parade of priests and officials seemed endless. It was a feast of colour, song, music, dancing, eating and drinking, which exhausted even the most experienced courtier.

If Akhenaten was meant to tire, to appear gauche or clumsy, he’d survived the test well. He always walked carefully, his ungainly body poised, his face set in a permanent smile. Nefertiti had taught him well. Both Ay and myself were always nearby. Court officials and flunkies, their rudeness hidden under cold politeness, tried to separate us whenever they could. During the evening feasts, Akhenaten was placed close to his father — but the Magnificent One seemed to be unaware of his existence, not even exchanging glances, never mind a word. Tuthmosis and his sisters, however, were fussed, touched and even anointed by their father, particularly the dark-eyed, pretty-faced Sitamun, Amenhotep’s fourteen-year-old daughter, a luscious little thing in her tight-fitting sheath dress and braided perfumed wig. During one feast she was even allowed to sit on her father’s lap, head resting against his chest as he fed her sweetmeats from the table.

Akhenaten never complained. In fact, he hardly spoke either to us or anyone else, but accepted his lot with a faint smile and a twist of his lips. At night we often tried to draw him into conversation but again the smile, the shake of the head. Only once did he reveal his feelings with a quotation from a poem:

Akhenaten had drunk the dregs, now the festival was ending with that solemn procession from Luxor to Karnak. Eventually we left the avenue with its long line of impenetrable sphinxes and went into the temple concourse.

We passed the glittering lakes and crossed a courtyard with its hundreds of black granite statues of Sekhmet, the lion-headed goddess who had devoured the first men. We were now about to enter the heart of the great Temple of Karnak. Trumpets and horns sounded, the blue, white and gold pennants tied on flagpoles above the gates danced and fluttered like pinioned birds. More trumpets and horns brayed and the huge bronze-coloured doors of Lebanese cedar swung slowly open on their brass pivots. We entered the sacred precincts of Amun-Ra, a vast forest of granite and stone, comprising temples, colonnades, statues and columns. More crowds were gathered here: notables and diplomats were given preferential treatment and so it was in the different squares and courtyards we passed.

In the central courtyard the procession came to a halt. The imperial palanquin was lowered amidst a swarm of shaven heads. The priests of Amun-Ra, divine fathers, priests of the secrets, lectors, stewards, chapel priests and their host of helpers clustered about. Trumpets sounded, drums were beaten and flower petals whirled through the air, mixing with the clouds of incense and the fragrance from the myriad baskets of flowers placed around the courtyard. A group of musicians and dancers came down the steps leading from the temple proper, a moving mass of music and revelry to greet the Divine One’s arrival. Amenhotep remained in his palanquin, as did Queen Tiye, whilst the lead singer of the choir intoned a paean of glory to him:

Once the hymn was ended Amenhotep was to make the formal reply. Only this time he turned and whispered to a fan-bearer, his herald. The man stepped forward. I heard a low hum and, glancing back at the steps, saw Shishnak the High Priest of Amun come slowly down and process across the courtyard. A thin, angular man with bloodless lips and dark penetrating eyes, Shishnak was used to the drama of the temple liturgy and able to exploit it for his own purposes. Either side of him walked two acolyte priests swinging golden censers and, behind them, a Standard Bearer. The latter carried a large ornamental fan, shaped like a half-moon at the top of a long golden pole, displaying the insignia of the temple — a ram’s head with golden horns, jewels as its eyes, the face and muzzle of cobalt blue.

Shishnak stopped in front of the imperial palanquin and gave the sketchiest of bows. Amenhotep returned this, a slight movement of the head but a gesture which spoke eloquently of the power and wealth of this High Priest, this supreme arbiter of religious affairs. Both priest and Pharaoh remained motionless. The herald was about to turn when I heard a gasp and looked up. Three black crows, birds of ill-omen, circled the courtyard. One came down to perch on the head of a statue, the other two joined it on the ground nearby, malevolent-looking with their cruel beaks and raucous cawing. A priest ran up waving a fan and the birds flew off, splitting the air with their hideous squawking. Ay, beside me, was all tense. He muttered something under his breath. The herald, however, unperturbed by what had happened, loudly proclaimed, ‘His Majesty is pleased to enter the sacred precincts of his Father’s temple. His speech of thanks will be delivered by his dearest son Prince Amenhotep.’

That was the only time my master’s name had been proclaimed officially. The herald’s declaration was greeted with gasps of surprise. Ay was cursing under his breath: ‘First the birds of ill-omen and now this. He is unprepared — he will stutter, falter.’

I made to go forward but Ay seized my arm. ‘Don’t be a fool; we are only here by grace and favour,’ he hissed.

The Magnificent One had plotted and trapped his son. He had been paraded in public, his entry to the temple arranged to coincide with those birds of ill-omen and now, untrained and inexperienced, either in public office or public speaking, he had to deliver a speech in the presence of Pharaoh and all the might of Egypt. Akhenaten leaned on his cane. I could tell from his posture how tense he had become but then he turned and looked up at the sun. His face was calm and he smiled, that dazzling smile which could captivate and disarm you.

‘We are waiting.’ The High Priest’s voice carried like a drumroll across the courtyard. ‘We are waiting for the son of the Magnificent One. All ears listen! All hearts rejoice at the great favour shown this son of Pharaoh!’

He had hardly finished when my master’s voice answered, clear and carrying, thrilling like a trumpet through the air.

My master paused and, completely oblivious to the gasps and exclamations this had caused, continued his paean of praise.

My master fell silent. The priests of Amun were a joy to behold, mouths gaping in sagging faces, hands flailing. Even Shishnak stood as if stricken. A hurried conversation took place between the Pharaoh and the herald. Trumpets blared and Pharaoh, helped by two of his assistants, left the throne. Accompanied by Queen Tiye and the High Priest, Amenhotep the Magnificent marched across the courtyard and up the steps into the sacred place. Only then, in private, could he commune with his gods and vent his rage at the impudence of his son, the Grotesque, who, in the very heart of Amun-Ra’s Temple, had dared to intone a paean of praise to his strange god Aten. The rest of the Assembly had to wait patiently.

I glanced quickly at Ay; his face was impassive but his eyes were bright with amusement. Other officials started talking amongst themselves whilst my master stood leaning on his cane, smiling beatifically up at the sun.