The Season of the Hyaena

Chapter 15

The next morning I felt tired, my mouth still bittersweet with the taste of stale wine. I rose and checked on the Prince, already busy with his studies. He was kneeling before his table practising the writings of hieroglyphs. He smiled shyly at me, waving his hand. I returned to my own quarters and stayed there for most of the morning, busy with the scribes. I was disturbed by my captain of mercenaries but I yelled at him to go away. As usual, before noon, I rejoined the Prince. We often ate out on the balcony above the pleasure gardens. Djarka had been busy in emptying some of the treasures from the tombs: chairs and stools, tables and couches had been brought to decorate the young Prince’s chamber. I was particularly intrigued by two guardian statues standing on their pedestals. They were both carved from wood; the flesh part of each statue, a young man glaring fiercely, had been painted directly on to the wood with shiny black resin, the head cloths, broad collars, kilts and other details overlaid with gold on a linen base. The forepart of a bronze Uraeus had been attached to each statue’s brows; the lifelike eyes were created by carbuncle jewels inlaid with limestone and set in frames of gilded bronze. The statues were standing, one foot forward on their pedestals, almost identical except for their headgear. Djarka was busy directing workmen to inscribe on the front of the triangular kilt of each figure Tutankhamun’s name as proof of ownership.

‘I thought they were appropriate.’ Djarka smiled up at me. He pointed to the doorway. ‘They can stand on either side of that: they will protect the Prince as well as remind him of his father.’

The statues had the faces of young men, sloe-eyed, round-cheeked, works of superb craftsmanship. I walked around them. They stood about six foot three inches high; the inlaid precious metal caught the light and created an aura of gold around their faces.

‘Do you like them, Your Highness?’ I crouched down before Tutankhamun, who was gazing open-mouthed at these lifelike statues from that mysterious treasure hoard.

‘Do you like them, Your Highness?’ I repeated.

‘Of course he does,’ Djarka interjected. ‘Look at their faces. Don’t you see a likeness between the carvings and His Highness?’

I did: the same youthful chubbiness, the wide-eyed stare. ‘Pentju,’ Djarka added, ‘and the craftsmen here, believe Pharaoh had these statues made as gifts for his son, to act as guardians. It’s a common enough practice.’

Tutankhamun kept walking around the statues, staring beneath their kilts, touching their legs. On one occasion he pressed his little face against one of their arms.

‘I like them,’ he declared proudly. ‘My father had them made to protect me. Djarka is right. Where I go, they shall follow. When I enter the House of Eternity, they shall guard me. They shall be Shabtis in my tomb outside Thebes …’

‘May that not happen for a million years!’ the craftsman quickly intoned, head down, bowing towards the Prince.

‘When shall we go to Thebes, Uncle Mahu? Ankhesenamun says …’

‘What does Ankhesenamun say?’

I whirled round. The Princess, dressed in gauffered robes, stood in the doorway, fanning herself lightly. In the shadows behind her was Amedeta, eyes bright with mischief.

‘Well?’ Ankhesenamun approached me, hiding her face behind the fan.

‘We are talking about returning to Thebes, Your Highness, but I am sure,’ I smiled, ‘you and your grandfather will decide on the best time.’

‘What our grandfather decides,’ Ankhesenamun grasped Tutankhamun’s hand, ‘is what Grandfather decides. But come, little Prince.’ She crouched down. ‘I want to show you the carp, and some new frogs have appeared.’

They left in a patter of feet and gusts of perfume.

Amedeta, as she passed Djarka, flirtingly trailed her fingers along his arm.

‘When will we return to Thebes?’ Djarka walked over, indicating that we move out of earshot of the craftsmen.

‘Why the hurry?’ I asked. ‘We have Colonel Nebamun’s brave squadrons guarding us on the clifftops. The Prince is safer here than in Thebes.’

‘It’s this city,’ Djarka whispered. He pulled a face. ‘Murmurs of discontent. People are beginning to ask about Meryre’s whereabouts. They know he escaped from Memphis.’

‘What you are implying,’ I retorted, ‘is that Meryre’s followers here in the City of the Aten have not heard from their master.’

‘They must be concerned,’ Djarka agreed, ‘as well as about what might happen in the future. They have seen the coffins and treasure leave on the barges.’

‘In which case, Djarka, we all have a great deal in common, and-’

‘My lord?’ I turned. My captain of mercenaries, lower lip jutting out, stood in the doorway glaring at me. ‘My lord, the prisoners?’

‘What prisoners?’ I shouted. I recalled the report the previous day, and his attempts to see me earlier that morning. I walked to the great window and stared down. Tutankhamun was standing next to the pool; he was beginning to favour his left side, as if his right leg or ankle gave him discomfort. On either side of him were the two women, Amedeta standing, Ankhesenamun crouching. They were sniffing the lotus blossoms, allowing the Prince to see what they were pointing out. Tutankhamun stamped with excitement, his hand resting on Ankhesenamun’s shoulder. I decided that Pentju and the other physicians must examine the young Prince again. Amedeta looked directly at me over her shoulder, as if she had known all the time I was staring at her.

‘Amedeta seems very fond of you, Djarka.’

‘She flirts with everyone, my lord.’ Djarka’s voice was devoid of any humour. ‘My lord, I think the captain of your guard,’ he forced a smile, ‘has business to do.’

‘Ah yes.’ I rubbed my hand. ‘You captured some sand-wanderers. Now why should they concern you or me? Are they smugglers, outlaws?’

‘I think you should see for yourself. It is not so much them, my lord, but what we found with them.’

I followed him down to the great courtyard. The sand-wanderers were chained in one corner, squatting in the shade against the fierce sun. The smell from them was like that of a jackal den. In another corner crouched a young woman, olive-skinned, hair black as a raven’s wing falling over her face. She sat with her arms across her chest, knees up, as if to protect her modesty from the sand-wanderers and those who guarded them. I went across, knelt before her and picked up a wooden bowl.

‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked.

Delicate fingers moved the black hair. She lifted her head, and even though her face was bruised and dirty, I was astonished by her beauty. That was the first time I met Mert; no wonder she was called ‘Lovely of Face’. She was tall and elegant, her features perfectly formed, full-lipped, smooth-cheeked, but most surprising was the colour of her sloe-shaped eyes, blue as a rain-washed sky. Her skin looked like it had been dusted with gold, and even though her nails were dirty and her lips chapped and cut, I could see why my captain of mercenaries had been intrigued. I took her hand and felt the soft skin of her palm.

‘She is not a sand-wanderer,’ Djarka harshly intervened. ‘Her skin is too fair.’

‘And her eyes are blue, just like yours, Djarka. Is she a member of your people?’

Djarka was glaring at the captain of the mercenaries, angry that he had not been informed immediately.

‘She could well be,’ he murmured.

‘What is your name?’ I turned back to the girl; she must have been about fifteen or sixteen summers old. ‘What is your name?’

She opened her mouth. ‘Aataru!’ She spat the word out. The name for the blood-drinking serpent. ‘Aataru,’ she repeated, pointing at the sand-dwellers.

‘That’s all she’ll say, my lord.’ My captain squatted down next to me. ‘We were out with some of Colonel Nebamun’s squadron, hunting fresh meat. The eastern deserts are empty and we came across these.’ He gestured towards the sand-dwellers. ‘Four in all, with two pack ponies. We decided to investigate as they were taking the path away from the city. They claimed to be acrobats, dancers, tchapqa.’ The Kushite stumbled over the term. ‘Their guild name is “The Drowning Men”, that’s what they call themselves. We would have let them pass; they smelled like a midden heap. We thought she was one of their women. We were about to turn away when she started screaming, the same word, “Aataru.” The sand-dwellers tried to silence her. One of them drew a dagger, so I drew mine. Now the Drowning Men are three, not four. We brought them in here. I thought you’d be interested in their story.’

I thrust the water bowl into the girl’s hand and walked across to the sand-dwellers, who crouched together, staring fearfully up at me. They were bedraggled, dirty hair reeking of cheap oil, faces darkened by the sun. I pinched my nostrils and crouched before them.

‘So you are the Drowning Men.’ I smiled.

‘Your Supreme Excellency.’ Their leader, a middle-aged man, tugged at his beard. ‘Your Excellency has it correct. I praise your wisdom. My lord,’ he whined, ‘we are simple actors, mummers, we dance.’

‘What are you doing out in the desert?’

‘We had been entertaining the villagers, the caravans, the merchants who pass. We earn a little for a crust and some wine.’

‘Show me,’ I demanded.

The sand-dwellers got to their feet and picked up some moth-eaten lion skins, the fly-bitten heads serving as masks. Two of them put these on, whilst the third, searching amongst his bundle, brought out a reed flute. The two actors pretended to be lions. At first their shambling gait provoked laughter from the mercenaries, but the reed player began to tell a story about two lions called the Devourers who lived out in the desert and hunted human kind. As he talked, his voice rising and falling, his two companions acted out their parts. Now and again the storyteller would return to his reedy music. The mercenaries stopped their laughter; the sand-dwellers were good. We forgot these were two men in shabby skins; against the background of their companion’s voice and the haunting reedy music, they became savage predators, provoking memories of that hideous Mastaba in the Delta.

‘Very good, very good.’ I interrupted the performance. The Drowning Men took off their masks, smiling from ear to ear. ‘I accept your story, you are entertainers.’

‘Aataru! Aataru!’ The young woman jumped to her feet, coming out of the corner, gesturing at the sand-dwellers.

‘We are not blood-drinkers,’ the leader whined, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘Once we were four, now we are three.’ He glared at my captain, then gestured at the girl. ‘She has brought us nothing but ill luck. She’s a witch!’

I grabbed the man by the beard. ‘What were you doing with her?’

‘We bought her,’ the man yelped, straining to break free. ‘We bought her from other desert wanderers. We were going to sell her as a slave. She’s comely enough for a pleasure house.’

‘Have you had your pleasure?’ I demanded. ‘She’s Egyptian. You know the law. She cannot be a slave.’ I tugged his beard again. ‘Now, tell me the truth, or where there were four there will now be two. You didn’t buy the girl, did you?’

The sand-dweller shook his head, tears of pain in his eyes. I released my grip.

‘We became lost in the eastern desert,’ he gabbled. ‘We wandered far and reached an oasis, the Place of Dry Water. Well, that’s what they call it. We found her there, sheltering under the trees. She had survived on dates and whatever water the oasis could produce. She wouldn’t tell us what had happened or how she came to be there, but kept pointing further east. One of my companions,’ he went on, ‘the one who was killed, tried to pleasure her but she fought like a wild cat and kept pointing further east. We thought she might be the survivor of some massacre but we wondered what caravan, what merchants would be travelling so deep in the desert. We told her to take us back there. On the way we picked up a local guide, a nomad, who told us a fearful story about a massacre which had taken place further east. Eventually, after two days’ travelling, we reached what’s called the Valley of the Grey Dawn. At the mouth of the valley stands an oasis, an island of green with a sweet-water spring.’

‘What was there?’ I demanded.

‘My lord, you should see for yourself. They call it the Valley of the Grey Dawn; I’d say it’s the Valley of Bones. Skeletons of men, women and children whitening under the sun, picked clean of all flesh. Here or there, a bracelet or a ring.’

‘Massacred?’ I asked.

‘We found arrow shafts, broken javelins, but nothing else.’

‘How many people?’

‘My lord, we counted at least four score, but darkness was falling and the night prowlers, huge hyaena packs, haunt the valley. We searched for any treasure, anything that might tell us what happened, but we could find nothing. The young woman was screaming, gesturing with her hands, so we left, putting as much distance between ourselves and that evil place as possible.’

I watched his two companions as he spoke. They were nodding in agreement, whispering to each other. I walked back across the courtyard. The girl still stood defiantly.

‘Aataru,’ she repeated.

‘What is your name?’ I asked. ‘Where are you from?’

She looked, puzzled, at me.

‘Your name? My name is Mahu.’

She shook her head.

‘Mahu,’ I repeated. ‘What is your name?’

‘Mert,’ she replied.

‘Ah, lovely of face.’ I smiled.

I returned to the sand-dwellers. ‘This place of slaughter? What did you find?’

‘A horrifying dark place,’ the leader replied, ‘full of howling hyeanas. The air was always noisy with the rustle of wings, vultures black against the sky. A fearful place, my lord, that haunting, long valley where the wind whistles and the dust devils blow. The oasis lies at the mouth. Our guide said it was sacred.’

I listened to the man even as I watched Djarka’s face. He was ignoring the sand-dweller, but his face had become pale and sweaty as if he had been too long in the sun.

‘Do you know this place, Djarka?’

He refused to answer. I turned back to the sand-dweller. ‘You will be our prisoners. No, no.’ I lifted my hand in the sign of peace. ‘You will also be highly rewarded, compensated for the death of your companion, provided you tell us the truth and, if necessary, lead us back to this place.’

In answer the man knelt down and searched amongst his tawdry possessions. He brought out a ring, a dark red ruby, the silver clasp engraved with the sign of the Aten. Then he handed us a scarab, a dark blue sunstone showing the sun rising between the Sacred Peaks.

‘We found those, my lord.’ He glanced fearfully at me. ‘Some of the skeletons of the women still had their hair, even though scorched by the sun and wind.’ He let his words hang in the air.

‘People of the court?’ I whispered.

The man nodded. ‘People unused to the desert, master. They had either been journeying there or had gone to meet someone. Every one of them was massacred.’

Behind me, Mert began to sob. I stared at that pathetic scarab and the ring, once the property of some noble-woman.

‘That is all, master.’

‘The remains?’ I asked. ‘The skeletons?’

‘Most of them are grouped round the oasis,’ the man replied. ‘But others were found closer to the valley mouth, as if they had fled only to be hunted down. We were fearful of going in.’

‘What else did you find?’ Djarka asked sharply, pushing his way forward. His hand went to grasp the sand-dweller’s beard, but I knocked it away.

‘We found nothing, master,’ the man wailed. ‘By the Leopard God and all that is holy.’

‘Any clothing, tattered remains of clothes?’

‘Nothing else. There may be more further up the valley.’

I grasped Djarka by the shoulder and pulled him away, then told the captain of my mercenaries to take Mert to the women’s quarters and hand her over to Ankhesenamun. The sand-dwellers were to be treated as guests, allowed to wash and change, and to be fed until their bellies were full. With their shouts of praise ringing in my ears, I left the courtyard and went immediately to my kah, or muniment room, where I pulled down maps of the eastern desert. I unrolled the best of these, placing copper weights on the corners whilst telling Djarka to stand close.

‘You know this place, don’t you? Don’t lie, Djarka, I can tell by your face. What is it, the Valley of the Grey Dawn?’ I glanced up. ‘Now, I know the nearside of the eastern desert well. Only a march away are the alabaster, turquoise and diamond mines, but further east, towards the Great Green …’ I shook my head.

‘This place is sacred to our people,’ Djarka replied. He pointed his finger along the map. ‘When we first came into Egypt, we did not follow the accepted routes but crossed the Sinai, keeping away from the fertile lands of the Delta.’ He traced the line with his finger. ‘We came south before striking west. The Valley of the Grey Dawn and its oasis was a good place to rest and replenish water supplies. I understand we buried our dead there, those who had perished on the journey. They also held,’ he moved closer, ‘the Gerh en Sheta Aru — the Night of the Secret Ceremonies.’

‘What were those?’

He shook his head. ‘I have only heard stories. My people talk of the Gerh en Sheta Kheb Ta, the Night of the Ploughing up of the Earth, after it has been soaked in blood.’

‘Your sacrifices?’ I asked.

‘We sacrifice animals, just as the sun sets.’

‘Have you ever been there?’

Djarka shook his head. ‘I have heard the stories. It lies directly east. Draw a line from the City of the Aten towards the Great Green, follow that line and you’ll reach this place of slaughter.’

‘A place of slaughter,’ I repeated. ‘You know, Djarka, and so do I, that that’s where Meryre and his people died, those who fled Memphis and Thebes as well as the great fortress at Buhen.’

‘I agree.’ Djarka tapped the map. ‘I suspect Tutu and Meryre, probably helped by their own people, the Apiru, went north to the oasis near the Valley of the Grey Dawn. They may have been given an escort, which turned on them, or a force was already waiting for them.’

‘Horemheb?’ I asked.

Djarka sucked on his lips, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearms. ‘Mert is one of my people, probably a daughter of one of the guides. Whoever is responsible for the massacre committed treachery. They wouldn’t trust Horemheb or Rameses. The killers posed as friends and allies.’

‘Ay,’ I breathed. ‘He’s the only one who could do that. He could command his brother Nakhtimin.’ I beat a tattoo on the map with my finger. ‘What I think happened is that Ay allowed Meryre to escape from Memphis, at the same time giving Tutu safe conduct to the Valley of the Grey Dawn. Once there, they were massacred. Ay demands Akenhaten’s memory be forgotten. He doesn’t want the Atenists fleeing into Canaan and stirring up more trouble, so he decided to wipe them out, root and branch. That’s my theory. Your people still consider Ay one of them?’

‘My lord Ay.’ Djarka smiled sourly. ‘My Lord Ay is whatever he wishes to be. Of Apiru descent, certainly of the tribe of Israar, but more Egyptian than the Egyptians. He is not interested in legends, or Gods, only in power.’

I returned to studying the map.

‘But Ay’s a politician,’ I continued. ‘If you know the legends and stories of your people, so does he.’

‘Before Ay left Ahkmin,’ Djarka gestured round the muniment room, ‘he had all the records of our people destroyed. I suspect that he had the same done in the libraries, record offices and archives of Thebes.’

I rolled the map up and sat on a stool, staring at the floor. Ay would cover his tracks carefully. He had to assure Horemheb, the priests and generals of Thebes that the days of Akenhaten were finished, that a new Pharaoh would rule Egypt. Horemheb would accept that. I recalled Rameses’ cold, cruel face, his shrewd eyes. If I was following this path about the true source of Akenhaten’s Great Heresy, then it was only a matter of time before Rameses stumbled upon it himself.

‘When I questioned Khufu, yes,’ I beat the map against the floor, ‘when I questioned Khufu, he talked of Akenhaten’s prophecies. How Pharaoh wrote down his visions, and entrusted them to the mysterious Watchers. So there are records left. But where, Djarka?’

My lieutenant remained stony-faced and cold-eyed.

‘Do you know anything?’ I snapped.

‘Master, if I did,’ Djarka replied, ‘I assure you, you’d be the first to know.’

I caught the sarcasm in his voice, and standing up, thrust the map back into his hands.

‘You, Djarka, represent the danger. Rameses would regard you as much of a threat to the power of Egypt as Akenhaten. You only tell me what you have to. What do you think will really happen, Djarka?’ I stepped closer. ‘Tell me now, in this room, dark and empty; our only witnesses are the oil lamps and the mice which scurry about. Tell me now, not as my servant or my lieutenant but as my friend. I ask you to speak with true voice.’

Djarka opened his mouth to reply.

‘The truth.’ I caught him by the wrist. ‘Tell me the truth, Djarka. Be the good archer you are, hit the mark full in the centre. You have not told me everything, have you?’

‘My lord, I have told you what I can.’

‘My name is Mahu. I am not your lord. I am asking you as one friend to another.’

Djarka gave a great sigh and slumped down on the stool I had vacated.

‘What I believe is that one day the prophecies will come true. My people will become a great power in Egypt. One day we will leave the banks of the Nile for the lands promised in Canaan. But when and where? The times and seasons? Only our nameless god knows that.’ He shook his head. ‘More than this I cannot, will not say.’

I left Djarka in the muniment room and wandered the palace. Undoubtedly, Meryre and all his people had died in a hideous massacre. Ay was attempting to close the door on the past, lock and seal it, but the likes of Djarka proved the roots were still there. It was only a matter of time before fresh shoots appeared. I became so agitated I decided to go into the city, carried on a litter, its curtains half-drawn. I would visit one of the pleasure houses. As I journeyed, I listened to the sounds of the city, glimpsing the passing scenes through a gap in the curtains. I tried to calm my mind, half watching the greenery, the sycamore and acacia as they jutted above whitewashed walls which gleamed in the sunlight. The heat of the day was gone. The avenue had been washed by slaves carrying large goatskins of water from the canal and strewn with rose petals. Settling back on the cushions, soothed by the rhythm of my bearers, I recalled the story of the sand-dwellers. How many men, women and children had died in that massacre? I could imagine them grouped round the oasis as Nakhtimin’s war chariots, supported by foot soldiers and archers, swept in at dawn, or dusk, to wreak bloody havoc. In such a desolate place very few would have escaped. Some would have tried to flee up the valley, but Ay had chosen his place well. I wondered about Mert. She must have hidden and, shocked by what she had seen and heard, lost her wits. Mert disturbed me. Something about her reminded me of Nefertiti. I pulled close the litter curtains and returned to a question nagging at my heart. Should I go out to the Valley of the Grey Dawn and see what had happened? Yet that would mean leaving the Prince.

I was still turning the matter over in my mind when we arrived at the pleasure house, with its shaded gardens and flower-filled courtyard, its doors decorated with gold and silver and encrusted with lapis lazuli. The Place of Soothing, as the beautiful handmaids who worked there called it. It was not just a pleasure of the flesh which took me there. Its chambers of delight were an oasis of calm, where small boys wafted ostrich plumes soaked in the most precious of perfumes. Wine as sweet as honey was served in silver-chased goblets. I was always a welcome guest. Even as I stepped out of my litter, the beautiful, gold-skinned handmaids were waiting, dressed only in their white-fringed kilts, soft golden flesh glittering with jewellery, heavy curled wigs drenched in khiphye shading their lovely faces, sloe-eyes ringed with green kohl sparkling with excitement. Cool fingers, their nails hennaed a deep purple, stretched out to touch me. Lips, as red as the ripest cherries, were eager to kiss. I had promised myself an evening of indolence. Nevertheless, that pleasure house was also a place of business where I could listen to the rumours and gossip of the city, the chatter of the marketplace, the grumbles of the merchants who flocked there after the labours of the day. The handmaids, chattering like beautiful birds, would, as they served me silver platters of date cakes or dishes of the ripest grapes, tell me about this and that. On that particular evening I caught a refrain I had heard before in reports received from my spies. News about the emptying of the tombs had spread; people were openly wondering what future, if any, lay in store for this most splendid city.

Of course, if the handmaids spied for me, they also spied for others, so my reply was always the same: the City of the Aten would last for a thousand years. Yet even as I spoke, I realised that I was lying, and the handmaids themselves sensed that.

On that particular evening I left the pleasure house late. Darkness had fallen, the stars were bright in a black sky. I was slightly drunk as I climbed into my litter. Around me I heard the chatter of my mercenary escort, the overseer of the bearers rapping out orders. I lay back on the cushions. We crossed the cobbled courtyard and debouched out into the street, bathed in the light of torches burning fiercely on long poles driven into the ground. The litter stopped. Raucous shouting shattered the night. I pulled back the curtains. A peasant’s cart had overturned, blocking the route we were to take down towards the main avenue of the city. I was careless. I ordered my bearers to place the litter down and clambered out. A crowd had gathered, eager to join in the argument or just watch one of the Great Ones being inconvenienced. My mercenary escort was shouting for the driver of the cart. The donkey had been unhitched, and glancing round, I couldn’t see its owner, only the cart lying on its side, heavy wooden wheels still spinning. My mercenaries were attempting to move it, offering to pay onlookers if they would help. The wine fumes were still heavy. My wits were slow. Only the creaking wheel of that overturned cart alerted me. No peasant ever unhitched his donkey and left his cart, whatever it contained.

My bearers were standing helplessly. I moved back into the litter, hand going beneath the cushion looking for my knife, even as I heard the strident yell. One of my bearers went down, a dagger thrust through his neck. He had fallen blocking the path of the other assassins, dark-bearded men, faces and bodies hidden by cloaks and cowls. I sprang from the litter. One of the assassins, knocking a bearer aside, came lunging, knife hand back. I ducked, thrusting in my own dagger, aware of an attacker closing in from my right. My mercenaries were now alerted. One of them threw his own sword and, more out of luck than skill, caught the assassin in the leg, bringing him crashing down. I gazed around. The onlookers were scattering. One mercenary was still struggling with an attacker; a second assailant was screaming in pain, clutching at the knife even as he choked on his own blood. A third was trying to crawl away. A mercenary ran up, sword ready to finish him off, but I shouted at him to stop. The cart now forgotten, the mercenaries formed a protective half-ring. Were there any more assassins?

The streets emptied, dark shapes flitting up the alleyways into the night. I glimpsed one face, changed from the last time I had seen him, darkened by the sun, black hair straggling down to his shoulders with a thick moustache and beard. I recognised those eyes, that hateful glance. Atenists may have died out in the Valley of the Grey Dawn; High Priest Meryre had not. For a moment, the measure of a few heartbeats, my gaze met his, but before I could speak he was gone.

The assassin who had taken my knife in his throat now lay silent, blood gushing from the gaping wound, as well as seeping out of his mouth and nostrils. The one struggling with the bearers had been dragged away, arms pinioned behind his back. The other was still screaming at the deep sword cut to his leg. The blade had severed the tendon behind the knee. I stood over him, prodding his shoulder with my walking cane taken from the litter. The man’s eyes were already glazing over, his lips were blood-smattered and his death rattle had begun. I sliced his throat. I had my prisoner, and that was enough.

By the time I returned to the palace, entering through a side gate, I was sober enough, though shaken at how close the assassin had come. I cursed my own ineptitude and carelessness. I had always thought the danger was in Thebes. I asked for another bowl of wine, summoned my captain of the mercenaries and had the prisoner taken to the House of Chains. He was spread-eagled on the floor, ankles and wrists manacled. I knelt down, grasped his hair and pulled his head back.

‘Speak! Speak!’

The man spat at me. I drove my knee into his face, crushing his nose.

‘Speak!’ I repeated.

Again the man tried to spit, but this time his lips only spluttered blood. I withdrew. My mercenary captain began to skin him alive, beginning with his arms. The man shook and screamed. I returned and stood over him.

‘Speak,’ I urged, ‘and death will come swiftly. Stay silent or lie and each day my captain will strip part of your skin.’

Another hour passed before the man broke. Gabbling and stuttering, he could tell me very little. Once he had been a soldier, a veteran in the regiment of the Aten, and later body servant to the Lord Meryre. He had not gone to Buhen and was surprised by the reappearance of Meryre and others of his circle who had crept back in disguise into the City of the Aten. They brought a hideous tale. A bloody massacre had occurred out in the eastern desert: Lord Tutu and hundreds of their followers had been killed on the orders of Lord Ay, who had sent chariot squadrons and troops of mercenaries allegedly to provide protection and safe passage through the desert and across Sinai. According to our prisoner, Meryre and about a dozen soldiers had escaped by fleeing across the desert away from the oasis. Using what wealth remained, they had travelled back into the Delta before moving to the City of the Aten, sheltering in the slums south of the city.

I immediately ordered my police and mercenaries to search there, but they returned empty-handed; they had found nothing except deserted hovels, whilst those who lived nearby had heard and seen nothing at all. The prisoner was only a soldier, paid by the Atenists to carry out my assassination.

‘Why me?’ I asked. ‘Why did Lord Meryre return here? I had no hand in the massacre.’

‘He holds you responsible,’ the assassin replied. ‘He thought it would be easier here. He has a blood feud with you, blood for blood.’

For two days I questioned that prisoner. I didn’t even allow Djarka to approach him. I alerted Nebamun and his chariot squadrons on the clifftops. Meryre, however, proved too cunning and slipped away.

Eventually I was satisfied. I ordered my captain to cut the prisoner’s throat to give him speedy release and immediately made the decision. Urgent letters were drawn up and dispatched to the Lord Ay in Thebes. My chief messengers were entrusted with the task. Ay should be warned that his massacre was now well known. I closed one letter reminding him that he might well reap what he had sown. I also decided to go out to the eastern desert to visit the Valley of the Grey Dawn for myself. Colonel Nebamun objected, as did Djarka, but I was insistent. The Prince would be moved into the care of Pentju, whose residence would be ringed by every available soldier. They would guard the Prince and Ankhesenamun whilst Djarka, myself and Mert, together with the sand-dwellers, would visit the Valley of the Grey Dawn. I demanded twenty of Nebamun’s chariots and the best guides and scouts he could provide to accompany half my mercenary corps. Nebamun reluctantly accepted my orders, though Djarka was full of protests.

‘If you leave this city,’ he objected, ‘something might happen. These rumours,’ he protested, ‘about the City of the Aten being deserted. They have turned ugly.’

‘Do you think they are connected with Meryre’s return?’ I asked.

‘Of course! We should forget the Valley of the Grey Dawn.’ Djarka stepped closer. ‘We should forget this city. It is time, my lord, you returned to Thebes.’

I shook my head. ‘Time enough,’ I whispered. ‘I must visit that valley.’

‘Why?’ Djarka insisted.

‘I don’t really know.’ I smiled. ‘But when I do,’ I clapped him on the shoulder, ‘you will be the first to know.’