An Evil Spirit Out of the West

Chapter 11

Pale-faced and anxious-eyed, Akhenaten left the palace the following afternoon. He was surrounded by shaven heads from the Temple of Amun and escorted by guards displaying the golden ram’s head of their god. My master had quietened down. Nefertiti had attended to him and Pentju had also been summoned in the dead of night to give him a soothing draught and check that all was well. Nobody was allowed to accompany him; even Horemheb and Rameses were ordered to stand aside as my master was taken down to the waiting barge: a black-painted, sombre craft with the ram’s head on the prow and an ugly carved jackal face on the stern. Once Akhenaten was gone, our house seemed to lose its soul. A chilling silence drove Ay, Nefertiti and myself out into the garden to sit under the shade of date palm trees. Snefru, sword drawn, circled us like a hunting dog, alert for any eavesdropper, brusque in dismissing servants who came our way. Ay’s confidence had been shaken. He conceded the priests of Amun had acted more quickly and ruthlessly than he had ever imagined.

‘An imperial summons,’ he shook his head, ‘cannot be ignored.’

‘He could have feigned sickness.’

‘Daughter, they would still have taken him.’

‘Why?’

‘Ostensibly,’ Ay sighed, ‘to acquaint himself with the God.’

‘And the truth?’

Ay glanced at me. ‘Mahu, you are so quiet. Can the pupil inform the master?’

‘Yes.’ Nefertiti moved closer, her breath on my face, her perfume tickling my nostrils, hands against mine.

‘For one or two reasons,’ I replied.

‘Yes?’ Ay demanded.

‘To break his will.’

‘Never.’ Nefertiti’s eyes widened.

‘Or to kill him.’

Nefertiti’s head went down; she gave a low moan, a heartwrenching sound. When she glanced up, her eyes were mad with anger. Her hand lunged out, nails ready to rake my cheeks, but her father seized her wrist.

‘You are sure, Mahu?’ he asked.

‘I am certain. The Prince will not be cowed. He asserts himself. He worships a new god.’

‘Whom his father also worships,’ Ay declared.

‘Only as a ploy,’ I replied. ‘A political balance against the host of Amun and only then at the insistence of Queen Tiye. Egypt has many gods,’ I continued. ‘Amun does not object as long as its supremacy, its monopoly of wealth and power is not challenged.’

‘But our Prince is not the heir.’

‘He could be,’ I replied. ‘He might be.’

The garden fell silent except for the call of a dove to its mate. ‘What makes you say that?’ Ay plucked at a blade of grass.

‘Tuthmosis is a blood-cougher.’

‘Not necessarily the mark of death.’

‘In one so young?’ I challenged. ‘Even if he lives and enjoys a million jubilees — may the gods so grant,’ I added mockingly, ‘so might our Prince.’

‘And?’

‘Our journey to the North is now well-known. What if, in the future, during the reign of an ailing Pharaoh, Akhenaten withdraws from Thebes, journeys to his holy site and sets up a rival court, a new temple of religion?’

‘Very good,’ Ay whispered. ‘A master pupil. You do think, Mahu.’

‘He just doesn’t talk, do you, Mahu?’ Nefertiti’s anger had cooled. She was staring curiously at me. ‘Go on,’ she urged.

‘If our Prince dies there’s no threat of schism, no challenge …’

‘But if Tuthmosis dies as well?’ Ay asked.

‘The Magnificent One has daughters,’ I smiled. ‘Shishnak or someone else might marry one of these. It would not be the first time there has been a change of dynasty in Egypt.’ I stared across the garden. ‘And if that happens, we would join our master across the Far Horizon. No one here would be allowed to survive.’

‘Queen Tiye would resist,’ Nefertiti declared.

‘Bereft of her husband and her sons? Don’t you think the priests of Amun know Queen Tiye is the true source of her second son’s waywardness?’

‘So, what can be done?’

‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘This is the eye of the storm. Our Prince is in the hands of his god.’

‘How could they explain away his death?’ Nefertiti asked.

‘You know full well: an unfortunate accident. Do you remember those crows flying over the Temple of Amun, the Prince’s so-called blasphemous hymn to the Aten in such sacred precincts! The shaven heads of Amun would claim that Akhenaten’s death was a just punishment from their god as well as a vindication of Amun’s supremacy. They do not intend to nip the bud, or cut the branch, but hack at the roots.’

‘We must have time,’ Nefertiti whispered, rubbing her stomach. ‘Mahu, I am pregnant.’

I went to congratulate her. She held up a hand.

‘Pentju has confirmed it.’ Her face creased into a smile. ‘I have asked Meryre to become my chapel priest. Both are sworn to silence. Why?’ she teased, head slightly to one side. ‘Do you think, Mahu, that you are the only child of the Kap who swears loyalty to us?’

‘Excellency,’ I replied formally, trying to overcome my own embarrassment. ‘All men swear allegiance to you.’

‘Very good, Mahu.’ She tweaked the tip of my nose and lifted her shift to reveal a slightly distended stomach. I am perhaps two months gone. Pentju has even whispered that I may have twins. The divine seed has been planted, it must be allowed to grow.’

‘Oh, how?’ Ay plucked at his lower lip, still lost in his thoughts. ‘How can these matters be turned?’

‘You’ve fought in a battle, sir,’ I mocked, recalling his words. ‘There is always a moment, perhaps even only a few heartbeats, when chance or luck …’

‘No such thing,’ Nefertiti snapped.

‘The hand of God,’ Ay whispered, ‘can change things. We have our spies at Karnak.’

Nefertiti glanced away. ‘And what will you do, Mahu?’

I thought of Sobeck, smiled and didn’t reply.

Later in the day I slipped into Thebes, taking a circuitous route to elude any pursuer. So strange to be in the city! The walls of the houses facing the street were dingy, windowless and silent; their doors hung open to reveal shadowy passages or the first steps of a staircase leading up into the darkness. Voices spoke, shouts, a child’s cry. Now and again I had to stand aside for a donkey, laden with burdens, trotting nimbly by under its driver’s stick. Occasionally houses would jut out, their upper storeys meeting to form dark suffocating tunnels. I walked quickly along these into some sunfilled square grateful for the light, noises and smells. The traders, as always, were busy. Sheep, geese, goats and large horned oxen were being herded and paraded for sale. Fishermen and peasants, squatting before their great reed baskets, offered vegetables, meat, dried fish, and pastries for sale. People haggled noisily, bringing their own goods, necklaces, beads, fans, sandals and fish hooks to trade. A farmer was shouting at a buyer, eager to purchase a slumbering ox.

‘No less! No less,’ the fellow shouted, ‘than five measures of honey, eleven measures of oil and …’

I paused as if interested and glanced quickly around. No one was following me.

‘What do you think, sir?’ the buyer bellowed.

‘At least half an ouηou in gold,’ I replied.

The haggling started again. I slipped away, concealing my face beneath the folds of my robe as if trying to fend off the stench of sweat, salt, spices, cooked meat and dried fish.

The odour was too much, as was the stinking, flea-infested reek of the alleyways. I went deeper into the city, across the open markets with their stalls and shops. I stopped to admire Hittite jewellery, Phoenician perfume, Syrian cordage, gold, silver and other metals. Feeling hungry I bought a small reed basket of dried dates covered in a syrup of honey and spices, dotted with pistachio and shredded almonds. I took this across to watch a goose being roasted over an open spit. When I had finished eating, I sat under a palm tree so a barber could shave and oil me. All the time I watched for that familiar face, a fleeting glimpse of someone trying to hide. I kept well away from processional routes, the temples and other outbuildings. I acted like a steward of some great mansion out on a day’s shopping. I paused before a jeweller’s stall; he was arguing with a customer over the alloys for electrum.

‘Forty measures silver and sixty gold!’ the customer declared.

I stared down at the precious stones, emeralds, jasper, garnets and rubies.

‘I have others in a chest at the back,’ the jeweller broke off from his quarrel, ‘away from thieving eyes and hands. This man,’ he grinned at the customer, ‘he’s got it wrong, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘An ouηou of electrum is twenty measures silver and eighty gold.’ The customer glared at me and shuffled off. I opened my own purse and measured out half an ouηou of silver into the small dangling scales. The jeweller’s eyes widened.

‘It’s yours,’ I declared softly, ‘if you just let me stand here. Tell me, is someone following me?’

The jeweller played with the scales, head going from side to side. ‘No, no, there’s no one. Ah, I am wrong. There is someone. He has just gone behind the stall. He’s dark-skinned, a desert man, dressed in a leather war-kilt, a belt across his chest. Ah, he’s turned and is going elsewhere.’

I left the silver, walked away and gazed round. I could not see ‘Leather Kilt’ amongst the crowd, only Nubians with their skins of smoked bronze, long-robed Desert Wanderers, Libyans with their feathered head-dresses, and fair-skinned Shardanah mercenaries. I crossed a needle-thin canal into the poorer quarter of the city which ran along the old quayside, down the narrow, crooked paths reeking of filth between houses of unbaked brick covered with a layer of mud and a roof of palm leaves. Between these, a few ragged acacia and sycamore trees shaded muddy pools for cattle to drink from. The inhabitants spent most of their time out on stools or rush mats, protected with sharp prickles to guard against scorpions and other vermin. They sat, engaged in tasks or eating a dish of onion and flat cakes baked over the ashes of their fires, little pots of oil beside them to soften the hard bread which broke their teeth and chapped their gums. They were garbed in filthy rags, their faces ash-stained. Children, almost naked, played in the mud, running and screaming, the din made all the more hideous by the yip and snarl of narrow-faced, yellow-skinned mongrels. The poverty was disgusting. In people’s faces I saw hollow eyes red and swollen, sunken cheeks and toothless mouths; smoke curled everywhere. I coughed and retched, wary of the rubbish strewn about. The beggars were legion, but my strength, not to mention the dagger I carried, kept them back.

I stopped at a corner and gave a scribe a deben of copper. He had set up a stall under a tree to write out temple-petitions for the illiterate. Taking the copper, he directed me to the waterfront where I found the Street of Jars, a thin strip of a lane full of beer-houses and winebooths. I glanced round. No dark-skinned man in a leather kilt followed me. I went into the cleanest-looking beer-house. The reception room was freshly limed, with mats, stools and piles of stained cushions for its customers. The place was half-empty except for a few tradesmen drinking jugs of beer and taking sips of palm brandy, and perfumed liqueurs cooked slowly in a pot. A grey fog of smoke curled from the kitchen and cheap oil lamps. I sat in a corner and ordered some beer. As I did so, ‘Leather Kilt’ sat down opposite me. He was burned black by the sun, shaven-headed, an earring in one lobe, copper-studded armlets and wrist-guards along his arms, a belt of similar colour and texture across his chest, military sandals on his feet. He leaned over, took my jug, drained it and pushed it at the pot boy, indicating we needed two more. I stared at that face, eyes crinkled by the sun, the leathery skin, the ugly scar which marked the left cheek, dead eyes in a dead face, a grim mouth.

‘Sobeck!’

‘Sobeck!’ His lips hardly moved. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. My name is Kheore — that means being. For that’s what I am — I simply am.’ He smiled at the riddle.

The boy returned with the beer jugs. Sobeck indicated that I was not to talk. We drank the beer and left, going down to the riverside. The quays were busy with their shabby markets through which soldiers, marines and sailors paraded, trying to catch the eye of the pleasure girls. Tumblers, tinkers, traders and scorpion men, the sellers of amulets and scarabs, bawled for trade. Storytellers announced what they had seen in their wondrous travels. Sobeck pushed his way through these and led me down an alleyway. At the bottom lay a derelict warehouse, its brick walls collapsed due to flooding. Inside, beneath the sodden palm-leafed roof mingled a pile of mud and bricks.

‘Everything collapses around here.’

Sobeck sat down on a part of the outside wall, indicating I sit on a nearby plinth.

‘Only the gods know what this was once. A temple? A warehouse? A brothel? A beer-shop? Anyway, it’s a good place to talk. There is only one lane leading to it, so I can see if anyone comes.’

I stretched out my hand. Sobeck hawked, spat, then grasped it.

‘I owe you my life.’ He stretched as if to catch the breeze coming in from the river. ‘I escaped,’ Sobeck declared. ‘I wandered for days. A Sand Dweller attacked me. He must have been a scout and not a very good one. The fortune of the gods, eh Mahu? He loosed an arrow but it hit the clay tablet round my neck. I pretended to be dead. He came in to see what plunder he could take.’

‘And you killed him? You broke the back of his head?’

For the first time Sobeck showed surprise.

‘Maya told me. He works in the House of Secrets.’

‘That plump piece of shit!’

‘He didn’t betray you,’ I declared.

‘Then who did?’

I spread my feet and gazed on the ground: I was intent on my revenge. ‘You will not believe this.’ I glanced up.

‘My Aunt Isithia.’

A knife suddenly appeared in Sobeck’s hand, its blade only a few inches from my face.

‘It’s a long story,’ I lied. ‘I won’t give you the details.

My Aunt Isithia was, is, a courtesan, well-known to the priests of Amun and the courts of the Divine One. She trains the Royal Ornaments in certain pleasures and practices.’

The knife was lowered. I sat listening to the whirr of insects and the faint sounds from the quayside.

‘I know all about the Divine One’s pleasures,’ Sobeck murmured, ‘but I never told anyone outside the Kap.’

‘Aunt Isithia’s suspicions were roused,’ I continued. ‘Do you remember Imri?’

‘The Captain of the Kushite guard,’ Sobeck retorted. ‘He guarded the Grotesque, or as you termed him, the Veiled One.’

‘Aunt Isithia heard some chatter about your dalliance with a Royal Ornament, the challenge to steal the Statue of Ishtar and so on.’ I paused. ‘She informed the authorities who instructed Imri, already their spy on the Veiled One, to keep this particular grove under close guard. He saw you both and reported back.’

‘I’ll kill him!’

‘He’s already dead,’ I replied. ‘Drowned in a crocodile pool.’

Sobeck put the knife away. ‘Your work, Mahu? You never did anything for anyone.’

‘Except plead for your life, Sobeck, and risk coming here.’

‘So Imri is dead.’ Sobeck tapped his sandalled foot. ‘I thought he killed Weni for insulting the Grotesque!’

‘Weni,’ I retorted, ‘died for mocking a Prince of the Blood. The Divine Ones will only tolerate this if it’s done at their command.’

Sobeck moved and saw me flinch, my nose wrinkle at his sour odour.

‘Yes, you’d notice it, Mahu, coming from your perfumed quarters. Do you know what I do now? How I make a few deben of copper? I am a dog-killer. I slaughter mongrels both here and in the Necropolis. I skin and mummify them so they can be sold to pilgrims as offerings.’ He half-smiled. ‘It’s an exciting profession, Mahu. You meet some interesting people.’ His smile faded. ‘It stops me from starving.’

‘Why did you follow me?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been following you since you left the palace. If you’d come straight to the Street of Jars I would have suspected that you’d allowed yourself to be deliberately followed, but the route you took,’ he shrugged, ‘the stalls you stopped at … There’s a price on my head, Mahu. A very good one. I am not some common criminal but someone who squeezed between the thighs of a royal concubine. The House of Secrets has as many spies as flies on a dog turd.’

‘So why did you send the message?’

‘Ah, the love poem?’ Sobeck whistled softly under his breath. ‘I wanted to find out if I could trust you. I need money, Mahu, silver and gold, precious stones. You always were a hoarder.’

‘And if I say no?’

‘Then, Mahu, you are no longer my friend. You can go, but you’ll never see me again.’

‘And why do I need your friendship?’

Sobeck crouched down and poked me hard in the chest. ‘In this land of tribulation, Mahu, never make an enemy when you can make a friend. The imperial court is not unique, it’s the same here. You fight, you struggle, you kill or die, either of starvation, a club to the back of the head or a knife under the ribs.’

‘I have already helped you.’

He got to his feet. ‘Ah yes, Aunt Isithia. I’ll reflect on what you said, Mahu. You want her dead?’

‘She’s nothing to me, Sobeck. She’s a witch: a woman with no heart or soul.’ I recalled Dedi, Ay’s secret whisperings. I rose to my feet. ‘She owes me a life. It’s time the debt was paid.’

I walked to the crumbled doorway.

‘Do you remember that jeweller I stopped at? Do you think he can be trusted?’

‘If he can’t be,’ Sobeck quipped, ‘he’ll die.’

‘I will leave you something there,’ I held up my hand, fingers splayed, ‘five nights from now.’

Sobeck walked across and clasped my hand. ‘You could inform the Divine One or Hotep? Even your own master?’

‘In this land of pain,’ I grinned, ‘this place of tribulation, you need every friend you can get, Sobeck. Anyway, you have been punished enough. No child of the Kap should end his life gibbering and screaming on a stake.’ I held up my hand. ‘Five nights from now.’

‘Let him go!’ Sobeck hissed out into the fading light.

I paused. A dark shape appeared in the doorway, a small thickset man, tufts of black hair framing a monkey-face. In one hand he carried a knife, in the other a club.

‘I see you have friends already, Sobeck.’

‘Ah, this is the Devourer,’ Sobeck laughed, ‘a demon from the Underworld, a man who can help us both. By the way, Mahu, I leave it to you whether you tell Maya about me. So go in peace, friend!’

Monkey-face stood aside and I went out into the night.

The Palace of Aten lay eerily silent during Akhenaten’s visit to the Temple of Amun-Ra. A soul-wrenching tension affected us all as we waited for news. On the fifth day, as promised, just before the ninth hour, I went back to the jeweller’s with a sealed casket. I’d kept my own treasures, gold, silver and jewels collected over the years. Akhenaten was a generous master. Monkey-face was waiting to take it. He grasped the casket, lips snickered into a grin and disappeared into the crowd. I dallied in the beer-house then visited a palace of delight where two Syrian girls in their thick perfumed wigs, bangles and anklets jangling, gorgets of silver round their throats, entertained and pleasured me. I returned along the river, past the picket guards set by Horemheb, to find Snefru waiting for me at the gate.

‘You are needed, Master.’

He almost pushed me into the hall of audience. Inside, three figures gathered round a glowing brazier; their muffled cloaks, shadows dancing against the painted wall, made them look like spectres, ghosts out of the West.

‘Come, Mahu.’ Queen Tiye pushed back her hood. Her face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed with weeping.

‘Where have you been?’ Ay snapped.

‘We have waited for you,’ Nefertiti whispered.

‘At my pleasures.’ I bowed and made to kneel.

Tiye grasped my wrist. ‘This is no time for obeisances or courtly courtesies,’ she said sadly. ‘Tuthmosis my son is dying.’

‘What!’

‘Your lord has taken sanctuary in the Temple of Amun-Ra.’

‘How do you know?’ I gasped.

Tiye looked over her shoulder into the darkness. ‘Come!’

A shape emerged from the entrance leading down to the kitchen. One of the oil lamps flared, revealing the round, painted face of Maya. He was swathed in a shawl, which concealed neither his exotic perfume nor the jingle of his jewellery. He reminded me of the Syrian girls I had just left.

‘Well met, Mahu.’ He minced into the circle of light.

Tiye patted him affectionately on the shoulder. I realised only then how this powerful group were intent on winning over all the children of the Kap. They had planned, they had intrigued, they had plotted from the start to isolate, educate and train young men to serve the Grotesque, the Veiled One, Akhenaten.

‘Was it always meant to be like this?’ I asked the question without thinking. ‘Were we always supposed to be servants for him?’

‘Yes,’ Tiye replied. ‘But the Divine One, at the last moment, refused to let my son join you. This house was the nearest he got. Everything else including’ — Tiye gestured at Ay and Nefertiti — ‘was to be hidden in the shadows.’

I pointed at Maya. ‘What have you learned?’

‘I have two spies in the Temple of Amun,’ Maya drawled, eyes smiling. ‘A lector priest and an acolyte responsible for their laundry.’

Ay laughed sourly. Maya ignored him.

‘Early this evening they informed me that Tuthmosis was found seriously ill in his chamber.’

‘Where was …?’

‘Your master?’ Maya’s eyes rounded. ‘He stayed near the Holy of Holies. Apparently Tuthmosis had returned to his chamber beyond the central courtyard where he became seriously ill. The alarm was raised by a servant. A priest tried to tell Akhenaten, as he now calls himself, what was wrong but he refused to leave the Holy of Holies. Akhenaten fears for his life — he believes there’s a plot to kill him and he refuses to leave the sanctuary.’

I thought of Akhenaten, long-faced, cowering in those dark aisles, his enemies surrounding him like a band of dogs.

‘Excellency,’ I gestured at Ay, ‘why not send your brother Nakhtimin to inform the Divine One?’

‘My husband is befuddled! As yet no one else knows.’ Tiye’s eyes filled with tears. ‘If they did, they might decide to strike …’

‘At the roots,’ Ay finished the sentence.

‘If the Divine One is informed,’ Maya jibed, ‘he might decide to cut both root and branch.’

‘What do you advise?’ I asked.

Maya gazed blankly back. The rest stood in silence. I recalled my conversation with Sobeck about Aunt Isithia. We were snakes coiling in the darkness. Everything we did was cloaked in secrecy. My journey to Thebes, those long sombre alleyways with the burst of sunlight at the end. I had run through them so quickly.

‘Surely,’ I began.

‘Surely,’ Ay mimicked my words.

‘Strike now,’ I urged. ‘This is the moment, that heartbeat in the battle, when all hangs in the balance.’

‘How?’ Nefertiti asked.

I threw all caution aside. ‘Let me go to the Temple of Amun. Horemheb and Rameses can be my guards. The shaven heads don’t know them. They’ll see what they expect to see, officers from the Sacred Band. Huy is a royal scribe, Meryre a chapel priest,’ I pointed to Nefertiti, ‘whilst Pentju is her physician, a scholar in the imperial House of Life. That’s it.’ I clapped my hands. ‘We will all be emissaries from the Great Queen. Horemheb and the rest were all sent to spy on us; let’s turn their weapon against them.’

Nefertiti clapped her hands, her beautiful face bright with life.

‘I’ll seal the document,’ Tiye intervened. ‘Despatched under my own seal.’ Her eyes glowed with excitement. ‘No, on second thoughts, I will go with you.’

‘Impossible!’ Ay objected. ‘They would suspect something’s wrong. Why should the Great Queen accompany her envoys at the dead of night?’

‘True,’ Tiye conceded. ‘I hold my own cartouche. I’ll sign passes, issue a demand, saying I wish emissaries to see my son.’

‘Both your sons,’ I urged.

‘Agreed.’ Tiye nodded absentmindedly.

‘And if they refuse?’ Ay asked. ‘If the shaven heads object?’

‘Sooner or later,’ I replied, ‘the news of Tuthmosis’ sickness and my master’s sanctuary will become known.’

I paused and walked away. Something was wrong. Crown Prince Tuthmosis was seriously ill in the Temple of Amun yet Tiye and the rest were not concerned about him. It was Akhenaten.

‘Tuthmosis,’ I declared. ‘He’s dead already!’

‘I know what you are thinking.’ Tiye’s voice carried across the room. She came up close. ‘I love my two sons, Mahu, but Tuthmosis is doomed. I know that, we all know that. I recognised the symptoms, his hideous secret for the last seven years. He coughs blood. No physician can save him. Indeed, this is what could have happened now: an attack, the bursting of blood within. However, I must, I can if God is good, rescue my surviving son. He has a destiny.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Please,’ she whispered; the imperious Queen of Egypt was pleading with me. She stretched out and grasped my hand. ‘Please, Baboon of the South, you have the cunning.’

‘What about the rest?’ Ay demanded. ‘Horemheb and Rameses? They might refuse.’

‘Let’s invite them to a meeting,’ I retorted, still holding Tiye’s hand, ‘and see if they’ll agree.’

My proposal was accepted. Ay was a little truculent, his jealousy of me apparent, but Nefertiti had forgotten her fears and took him aside, whispering, stroking his arm. By the time Snefru returned with Horemheb and Rameses, Huy and Pentju, Ay was in full agreement. Maya, of course, had disappeared, murmuring that it was best if his comrades did not see him.

Any protests at being disturbed at such a late hour died on their lips as Horemheb and the rest came into the hall of audience and greeted Queen Tiye. They silently made obeisance and waited until Snefru had arranged cushions on the floor and withdrew. We all squatted down, staring at each other over the glowing light of the alabaster jars. Queen Tiye was flanked by Nefertiti and Ay, whilst I sat with the rest facing them.

‘This is no idle summons,’ Tiye began. ‘Mahu will explain.’

My blood was still running hot. Despite the night I was not tired but eager to press on. I told my comrades in short, pithy sentences what had occurred and what was planned. When I finished there was silence.

‘It means we force our way,’ Ay began, ‘into the Temple of Amun accompanied by only two soldiers.’

‘And the Great Queen’s warrant,’ I replied.

‘And if we refuse?’ Huy asked.

‘Then we can all go to bed,’ I replied.

‘If you refuse,’ Horemheb grated, ‘you can go back to bed, Huy.’ He glanced along the line. ‘Answer the question, Mahu.’

He was sitting next to me, so I turned and held his gaze.

‘Go back to bed, Comrade, but you and I, we shall be finished. We shall never be comrades or friends again. The next time we meet will be as sworn enemies.’

‘And if we try to stop you?’ Rameses whispered.

‘That is not your duty,’ Ay snapped. ‘You are supposed to be here to protect us.’

‘I am only asking,’ Rameses cheekily replied. ‘We are officers in the Sacred Band. Tonight’s work could finish us.’

‘And if you don’t co-operate,’ Tiye spoke up quietly, ‘you are finished anyway.’

‘Can’t you see?’ I urged. ‘One way or the other, this very discussion will be made public.’

‘We are trapped,’ Meryre shrugged. ‘Either way we are trapped.’

‘No, you are not.’ I breathed in deeply. ‘The Fields of the Blessed have called Crown Prince Tuthmosis. He is dying.’

‘How do you know?’ Rameses demanded.

‘Shut up!’ I snarled. ‘Tuthmosis is dying all right, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. The Divine One,’ I gestured with my hand, ‘grows old. His younger son’s destiny is to be Pharaoh, Owner of the Great House, Lord of the Two Lands. Akhenaten will wear the Diadem and Uraeus. He will hold the Flail and the Rod. He will make the People of the Nine Bows tremble under his feet. Tonight could be your great moment of glory.’

‘I agree.’ Huy waved his hand. ‘I wish to be part of this.’

Pentju and Meryre followed suit. They both asked why they were needed. I dismissed their questions.

‘A royal priest and physician from the House of Life? Your presence,’ I declared, ‘is vital in a formal delegation from the Great Queen.’

The circle fell silent. Everyone waited for Horemheb and Rameses. The latter made to speak but Horemheb covered his friend’s hand with his own.

‘We are with you,’ Horemheb announced softly, ‘and, if it’s to be done’ — his craggy face broke into a faint smile — ‘it’s best done quickly. There’s not a moment to lose.’

The meeting broke up. Ay brought a writing tray with the finest papyrus as well as black and red ink and a sheath of pens. Passes were issued, a warrant drawn up, all sealed with the imperial cartouche of Great Queen Tiye. Horemheb and Rameses borrowed swords, I placed a dagger beneath my robes and, gathering our cloaks, we went out into the courtyard. Rameses was there with a small escort, all armed and bearing torches. We were about to leave when Nefertiti came out on the steps and called my name. I went back and looked at this vision of beauty, lovely as the night. She pressed two of her fingers against my lips.

‘I swear, by heaven and earth, we shall never forget this, Mahu.’ Then she was gone.

We hurried down to the river and clambered into the war-barges for the short journey up the Nile. We kept close to the reed-covered banks. I was not aware of the roar of the hippopotami, the breeze gently shaking the tree branches or the disturbances of the water, the cackle of birds in the undergrowth or the lights far out on the Nile as fishing boats returned to shore. We sat, a silent group lost in our own thoughts. Soon we reached the Sanctuary of Boats, the Mooring Place of the Golden Ram, the quayside of the Temple of Amun-Ra. Torches lashed to poles illuminated the steps as we clambered up. The dark mass of the temple soared above us. Guards carrying the sacred shields, ram’s masks on their faces, stopped us: in muffled voices, they demanded we show passes and warrants and explain our presence.

Horemheb now took charge. On our way down to the quayside he and Rameses had stopped at their camp to decorate themselves with all the insignia of their rank: Collars of Gold and pendants displaying the Silver Bees of Bravery. The guards let us through. We entered a side gate and crossed the different courtyards of the Temple of Karnak. The forbidding faces of statues glared down at us in the moonlight. Cresset torches glowed against the night, flames dancing in the breeze. We heard the cries of the sacred flocks of geese and herds of rams and bulls which roamed free in the fields and meadows of the temple. Now and again gaps of pale light displayed the relief on the walls, revealing mysterious beasts and royal processions leading to a bizarre world where gods and exotic animal creatures lorded over all. We passed through heavy doors cut in black granite, along narrow alleyways, past colossal statues of Osiris, Isis, Horus and the other gods of the temple pantheon. Every so often a group of guards would challenge us then let us through copper-lined doors, deeper and deeper into a labyrinth of cold, sombre passageways where the gods were supposed to walk and the veil between our world and the next grew exceedingly thin. Occasionally we’d hear the chant of a hymn or smell the fragrance of the incense and flower baskets.

At last we reached the Great Central Court leading up to the hypostyle hall where Akhenaten had sung his hymn. The Power of Amun was waiting for us at the foot of the steps: row upon row of temple guards, some wearing striped head-dresses, others the jackal or ram’s masks of Anubis and Amun-Ra. Torches flared, censers were swung. In front of the serried ranks stood clusters of priests and acolytes. I smelt the dried blood of sacrifices offered in reparation for ancient sins. Pentju moaned with fear. It all formed an awesome sight! The soaring columns of the temple, the black granite, the grotesque statues, the glint of spear and sword, those hideous masks and the silent concord of priests in their white robes and stoles. Shishnak stood in front of them all, grasping his staff of office. Meryre began to panic but Horemheb scratched his nose, an unconscious gesture when he was about to lose his temper.

‘One thing I hate are temple guards,’ he murmured. ‘Do they think we are frightened by children’s masks?’

He strode across, sandalled feet echoing on the paving stones, gathering speed as he walked. I and the rest had to run to keep up, past the statues, the obelisks, the stele proclaiming the triumphs of previous Pharaohs. Horemheb paused a few inches in front of Shishnak and handed over his commission from Queen Tiye. The High Priest unrolled it and my heart leaped. Shishnak’s hand was shaking whilst a bead of sweat raced down the side of his forehead. He kissed the seal and handed it back.

‘I … I don’t know.’ His humble words belied his haughty, lined face. Those glittering eyes didn’t seem so hard or imperious now.

‘What is the matter?’ Rameses demanded, almost pushing me aside. ‘My lord, the message from the Great Queen is most simple. She requires the presence of her sons now. We are their escort.’

Shishnak glanced at his acolytes. ‘You’d best come,’ he whispered and, spinning on his heel, he led us through the throng of priests and serried ranks of soldiers up the steps.

The Hall of Columns was a funereal forest of stone, lit here and there by shafts of light. This mournful place reeked of blood, and of sinister mystery, which the dancing flames did little to dispel. The columns soared up into the darkness. I couldn’t even glimpse the roof. A ghostly coldness hung, an unseen mist which chilled the sweat on our bodies. Shishnak, escorted by his acolytes and officers, led us down a passageway; they stopped before a chamber guarded by two sentries. Horemheb dismissed these and ordered the rest of Shishnak’s escort to withdraw. Shishnak put his hands to his face as if to intone a prayer; his two forefingers running down the deep furrows in either cheek.

‘I must tell you,’ he stammered, ‘I learned this just before you arrived: the Crown Prince, the Lord Tuthmosis, is dead! May Osiris welcome him into the Undying Fields! May Horus shower him with light!’

‘I want to see his body!’ Horemheb abruptly declared.

Shishnak unlocked the door. The chamber within was lit by oil lamps; torches glowed either side of a high window. A comfortable room with its gleaming furniture and painted walls, it was now dominated by the lifeless form sprawled on the bed hidden by gauze-like curtains. Without being invited, Horemheb pulled these aside. Some attempt had been made to dress the corpse. At first sight it looked as if Tuthmosis was asleep, though I noticed the blood tinge on the right corner of his mouth, his strange pallor, the half-open eyes, the feeling of complete stillness. Horemheb turned; he almost dragged Pentju to the bedside.

‘Our own physicians from the House of Life …’ Shishnak said nervously.

‘Never mind them,’ Horemheb snapped. ‘We have our own.’

Pentju quickly scrutinised the corpse, turning the face, looking at the chest and stomach, pulling aside the robes.

‘A seizure,’ he declared. ‘Death by natural causes. At least, that’s what I think. The skin is cold, the muscles are stiff.’

‘And the blood?’ I asked.

‘Part of the seizure,’ Pentju explained. ‘A vessel may have burst.’

‘How did this happen?’ Horemheb demanded.

Shishnak coughed. ‘Both the Crown Prince and his brother had gone into the Holy Place to pray before the naos. For some unknown reason, Tuthmosis came back here. He left the door ajar. I had heard that he had left and came down to see what had happened. Crown Prince Tuthmosis was lying on the floor; he was trembling, blood dripped from his mouth. He complained of pains in his chest and stomach, of violent headaches, weakness in his limbs. I helped him to the bed. The physicians were called, but they could do nothing.’

‘Don’t you think you should have alerted the Divine One?’ Horemheb asked, playing the role of the outraged officer. ‘Sent messages to his mother?’

‘Of course, of course,’ Shishnak apologised, the fear obvious in his eyes, ‘but matters were complicated. I sent a priest to alert his brother but the Prince hid behind the naos, screaming insults, saying we had murdered his brother and that we intended to kill him. I went to reason with him but he was hysterical. He picked up incense pots, flower baskets, even a figurine and hurled them at us. The platters of food we had laid before the shrine were also thrown. I thought it best if we placated him, persuaded him to withdraw before we alerted the Great House. I will see to the corpse,’ he continued hurriedly. ‘He will be transported with every honour to the House of Death.’

‘The dead do not concern me,’ Horemheb said, walking to the door.

‘My Lord Shishnak,’ I intervened, ‘where is my master’s chamber?’

‘Across the passageway,’ the High Priest replied.

I walked out, Horemheb following me. The door to Akhenaten’s room was unlocked. It turned out to be a chamber very similar to that of Tuthmosis. The bed was undisturbed, shrouded in its gauze-like sheets. Candles and oil glowed, a small capped brazier sparkled in the corner.

‘I must see my master,’ I declared.

‘You cannot go in there.’ Shishnak’s old arrogance asserted itself. ‘You are not purified.’

A stoup of holy water rested in a niche in the chamber wall. I took off my sandals, went across and bathed my hands, face and feet with the salt-laced water; it stung my eyes and a small cut on my face. I shook myself dry, using the edge of my robe.

‘Now I am purified.’

‘But you can’t.’

Horemheb drew his sword.

‘What other way is there to convince the Prince?’ I hissed, my voice echoing along the cavernous passageway. ‘I am his servant — he will trust me.’

Shishnak closed his eyes, fighting with himself.

‘It’s the only way,’ Horemheb repeated.

Shishnak opened his eyes, then, grasping me by the arm and telling Horemheb to stay, he led me back into the Hall of Columns. Two acolytes escorted us through the gloomy hall past statues and carvings, shrines and chapels to the great gold-plated doors of the Holy of Holies which shimmered in the light of torches held by the officers gathered there. One of the acolytes whispered instructions. The doors opened. I ignored the exclamations and cries of the guards and priests clustered behind me and strode straight into that cold, empty tomb of a room. The great tabernacle stood on its stone daïs, the open doors displaying the gold-plated figure of Amun, the Silent One, the God Who-Watches-All. Before it were small slabs of stone on which the offerings and flower baskets were placed: these had been violently disturbed. The floor was strewn with gold plate, goblets and jugs, slabs of meat, loaves of bread, fruit of every kind. I walked slowly, almost slipping as my foot crushed a bunch of juicy grapes. The air reeked with sweet and sour smells of natron, incense, cassia and the cloying smell of myrrh. A haunted place of shifting shadows. One of these moved from behind a pillar. My master entered the ring of torchlight, his robes stained, cut and torn, but he had regained his composure.

‘Mahu. It’s good to see you.’

I stretched out my hands. ‘Master, we are to escort you home. You are safe.’

Akhenaten strode towards me, his cane rapping the ground.

He kicked aside platters and grasped my hand. ‘Mahu, let us go. Let’s leave this abode of demons.’