The Season of the Hyaena

Chapter 16

Preparations for our expedition dominated the next few weeks. We would have to face the savage heat in an arduous journey across arid sands, where wells and springs were scarce and jealously guarded by fierce tribes of desert wanderers. Laden with bribes, envoys were sent out to treat with these. Safe passage was assured, expert scouts hired, sturdy donkeys bought, water skins and provisions carefully assembled.

Only veterans used to the searing heat and desert warfare were selected. Colonel Nebamun promised to supervise everything whilst I concentrated on the reports coming in from my spies in the city, who all chanted the same hymn, of a growing disquiet, a grumbling malice against the palace as well as the Royal Circle in Thebes. Powerful merchants and nobles were hiring retinues, whilst our patrols along the river often discovered arms being brought in, yet for every dagger found, five remained untraced. None of my scribes could discover the source of this growing unrest. Meryre’s agents had spread fear, moving like shadows in the dead of night. They had sown their crop and left us to reap the harvest. The news of the hideous massacre somewhere out in the eastern desert was openly discussed in the beer shops and marketplace. Ugly rumour drifted like curls of black smoke, yet there was little I could do to prevent it. Chariot squadrons were brought into the city. The palace was fortified. Masons and builders strengthened its walls and gateways. Watchtowers were set up. All roads leading to the palace, as well as its inner precincts and courtyards, were heavily patrolled, both day and night. No one was admitted unless they carried a document sealed with my own cartouche and knew the password for that particular watch.

Nebamun, Djarka and I pored over maps of the city, organising how, if necessary, the palace could be evacuated, and the Royal Household safely escorted down to the war barges; their captains were already under orders to leave at a moment’s notice. Nebamun wanted to send messengers to Memphis and Thebes asking for reinforcements, even permission to withdraw. I told him I would take responsibility, leaving the grizzled veteran to glower angrily back. Journeys into the city were no longer pleasant excursions. The Royal Household was confined to the palace gardens and courtyards. If I, or any of my officials, left the palace, we were always accompanied by a military escort. The Prince seemed unperturbed by these preparations; I would invite him for a game of Senet or, early in the morning, take him down to the courtyard to practise archery.

Tutankhamun was playful and vigorous enough, though he constantly favoured his left side; at times he complained about aches in his legs and arms. Occasionally, he would sit as if drugged, a dreamy look in those doe-like eyes, a smile on his half-open lips, as if he were savouring some secret joke or could see something I couldn’t. My suspicions that he was simple, of vacuous wit, would re-emerge, only to be rudely shattered by an abrupt change in mood. Like a scribe learning the law, Tutankhamun would crouch before me and closely question me about his father, the city we lived in, and above all, the worship of the Aten. He was aware of the Apiru and the stories of the people of Israar, and I began to regret Djarka’s influence over him. Tutankhamun also became sensitive to my moods. If he believed he was annoying me, he would swiftly change the topic. I found him quick-witted, with a ready humour. I called him Asht-Heru, Many-Face, because he proved to be such an able mimic. I would roar with laughter as Tutankhamun imitated Colonel Nebamun and strode up the room, shoulders back, chin tucked into his chest, glaring at me from under his eyebrows, shouting in a deep voice. Abruptly he’d change, becoming a lady of the court. Only once did such mimicry cause a ripple of fear. Tutankhamun seemed to have little love for the priests, the Rem-Prieta, or Men of God. He could mimic their pious looks, their sanctimonious walk, their love of being seen to pray publicly, and the way they sang, more like a whine through their nose. On this occasion he must have caught my sad glance because he came running up.

‘Uncle Mahu! Uncle Mahu! You are not laughing?’

‘Oh, you are funny enough!’ I clasped his hands. ‘It’s just that I have thought of something.’ I didn’t tell him how, as a young man, Akenhaten had loathed and mocked the priests of Amun. Tutankhamun was intelligent enough to realise this mimicry did not please me, and quickly reverted to imitations of Nakhtimin and Djarka.

I used that time of preparation to study the Prince more closely. I dismissed my secret doubts that he was Pentju’s son. The more I watched him, the more I could see Akenhaten. Like his father, Tutankhamun was dedicated to a physical purity. If he spilt beer on his robes, he immediately changed, and during the day would often demand perfumed water to wash his hands. He loved to be anointed with oil and perfume. I put this down to Ankhesenamun’s influence; she now seemed to dominate his days.

In the main, Tutankhamun was kind and gentle. He often expressed regret at the two tortoises he had killed, yet that streak of angry malice could still surface. I’d catch occasional glimpses of this: an irritation with a servant, or shoving aside a piece of duck not cooked to his taste. The more serious incident occurred a week before we left. I was in the garden, dictating to my scribes. The laughter of Tutankhamun and the ladies of the court was abruptly replaced by loud screams. I hurried out of the pavilion across to the small palm grove where Ankhesenamun, Amedeta and Mert were resting in the shade. Tutankhamun, a thin cane in his hand, stood over a cowering servant. He was berating him, then he brought the rod down, lashing the unfortunate’s head and shoulders. Other servants stood by, watching helplessly. As I approached, Ankhesenamun stopped laughing and called out to Tutankhamun to stop, but the boy, dancing with rage, brought the cane down time and time again, drawing blood from the man’s cheek and lips. I hurried over and grasped the cane. Tutankhamun would not let go. His face was no longer serene but blotched with rage, eyes glaring, lips twisted, a slight froth staining the corner of his mouth.

‘My lord,’ I urged, ‘let go.’

‘Uncle Mahu! Be gone! This smett,’ he spat out the word for slave, ‘I caught in the act of ta-ta.’ He glared at the miscreant. ‘He was fondling himself to bring his own seed. I caught him there behind the bush. He has polluted himself. He has defiled his body in my presence.’

I pulled the cane from Tutankhamun’s hand.

‘How dare you?’ Tutankhamun yelled back. ‘You, too, are a smett, Baboon of the South! You are defiled.’ He stood, hands clenched, quivering with rage. I glanced up. Amedeta and Mert, together with the servants, had fled. Ankhesenamun was staring coolly at me, her beautiful face slightly turned, clearly enjoying the confrontation. Tutankhamun seized the opportunity to run at me, fists flailing. I grasped his arms, even as I recalled his father’s hideous rages.

‘My lord, you are unwell!’ I snapped.

‘I am the Leopard God,’ Tutankhamun hissed. ‘I am Horus in the South, Horus in the Ground, Horus in the Spirit Soul, Horus of the Red Eyes.’ He tried to break free, as if to pursue the servant, who had crawled away on his hands and knees. ‘I am Lord of the Two Lands.’ He turned back to me. ‘I live in the truth.’

I shook him, slapped him gently on the cheek. In the twinkling of an eye the rage disappeared, and both face and body sagged. I let go, and he ran across to Ankhesenamun, crouching for shelter in the crook of her arm, thumb to his mouth.

‘He polluted himself,’ he whispered. ‘Only a Prince can bring forth his own seed.’

Ankhesenamun’s hand hung down just above the young boy’s crotch. I wondered what teaching she had provided.

‘Does this happen often?’ I asked.

‘Ask your spy Djarka.’

‘I do. He’s not a spy. He protects the boy.’

‘For how long, Uncle Mahu?’ Ankhesenamun’s eyes rounded in mock innocence. ‘How long will you guard us? Weeks slide into months, and months into years. My husband to be,’ eyes still watching me, she turned and lightly kissed Tutankhamun’s forehead, ‘will one day have to emerge and walk in the light of the sun. He cannot stay hidden for ever.’

‘When the time comes.’

‘The time is already here,’ she retorted, leaning forward. ‘I have heard the rumours. The city is unsafe. Why do you go out into the desert, Uncle Mahu?’

‘You know why, my lady. I am sure your grandfather has written to you, whilst you must have spies amongst my scribes. The Atenists were massacred out in the eastern desert. Lord Meryre escaped and attempted to take my life.’

Ankhesenamun smiled thinly. ‘Grandfather always said Meryre was a fool.’

‘A dangerous one,’ I added.

‘Why can’t we return to Thebes?’

‘Because I have direct custody of the Prince. We shall go when it is right.’ I rose, bowed and walked away.

‘Uncle Mahu! Uncle Mahu!’

I turned. Tutankhamun came hurrying across the grass, arms out. I crouched and he flung himself at me. I could feel his hands on the back of my neck, his hot cheek pressed against mine.

‘I am sorry, Uncle Mahu.’

I pulled him away. ‘Why did you do that?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know.’ His eyes had that dreamy gaze. ‘I don’t know, Uncle Mahu. I feel as if the blood bubbles within me. I remember who I am.’

‘Does Ankhesenamun …’ I gazed across at the beautiful cobra still curled beneath the tree, smiling serenely across. ‘Does Ankhesenamun tell you who you are?’

‘She tells me everything,’ Tutankhamun whispered. ‘She says we will be a great king and queen. I shall be Horus in the South. My name and power shall reach the ends of the earth. She lies beside me in bed, strokes my body and whispers all sorts of sweet things to me.’

‘I am sure she does.’ I disengaged his arms. ‘Remember, my lord, you are a prince. You are like a soldier in training. That servant, you should not have beaten him!’

‘But he was dirty.’ The anger reappeared. ‘He was defiled. He cannot commit such acts in our presence.’

‘How old are you, my lord?’

‘Soon I shall be eight.’

‘Soon you will be eight.’ I went to cup his face in my hands, but Tutankhamun stepped back, gave a cursory bow and returned to his sister.

By now Pentju had moved back into the palace. I wanted him there as guardian when I left for the eastern desert. I asked him to examine the Prince carefully. Pentju had been accustomed to do this, but increasingly, Ankhesenamun had begun to interfere with glib excuses or protest that the time was not right. On this occasion, however, I had the Prince brought to my quarters. For an entire afternoon the physician talked to him, making him run and jump, touching his body, asking him questions. He asked me to be absent, as Tutankhamun did not like to be examined by anyone in the presence of others, the only exception being Ankhesenamun. In the evening Pentju dined alone with me on duck and goose, delicately roasted and grilled, a favourite dish ever since our time as Children of the Kap. On that evening, I noticed how he had aged: he was more flabby, the veins in his cheeks and nose quite marked. I clinked my goblet against his.

‘Physician, heal thyself. You are drinking too much.’

‘I do heal myself!’ he quipped back. ‘The wine makes me forget the past, Mahu. It drives away the ghosts which cluster in the corners. My wife, my children, my kinsmen, Princess Khiya.’ He bit his lip.

‘And the Prince?’ I asked.

Pentju stared back into the chamber. We were sitting on a balcony, a place I loved to dine; it was closely guarded against eavesdroppers.

‘Is the Prince sick?’ I asked.

‘No more so than his father.’ Pentju sipped at his wine. ‘His limbs ache and he has inherited his father’s condition. As he matures,’ Pentju gestured with his hands, ‘his shoulders will grow broader, but so will his hips. He’ll have a protuberant belly and the same chest as his father; his hands, fingers and toes will be longer than the average man’s.’

‘Like his father?’ I interrupted.

‘Like his father,’ Pentju agreed, ‘but not as pronounced or marked.’

‘And his moods?’

Pentju laughed quietly. ‘Mahu, I can tell you, as I’ve said before, how the heart beats, what causes a worm in the intestine or the symptoms of some disease. But a man’s soul? Even harder, a child’s! He is the son of Khiya; he has inherited her gentleness. He’s also Akenhaten’s son.’ He picked up a piece of firm cheese made from pressed, salted curds and sniffed at it. ‘Very tasty,’ he mused. He cut a slice.

‘He is his father’s son?’ I insisted.

‘Ever the policeman …’ Pentju sighed. ‘Always the question. Yes, he is Akenhaten’s son. He suffers what my learned colleagues would call rushes of blood, and changes of mood, when he can become violent. As he grows older he may even suffer from fits, the falling sickness.’

‘Could he beget an heir?’

‘The boy is only eight.’ Pentju grimaced. ‘His penis, his manhood are a matter for the future. I don’t see why he shouldn’t.’

‘Could he ever,’ I demanded, ‘be like his father?’

‘No one else could be like Akenhaten.’ Pentju laughed softly. ‘A great deal depends on the next few years. It is time he returned to Thebes; he must forget everything there is about the Aten.’

‘And Ankhesenamun?’ I asked.

‘Ah, there’s a game you’ve lost, Mahu.’ The physician leaned across the table, cleaning his teeth with his tongue. ‘As the boy grows older, her influence will grow. There’s nothing you can do about that, except, perhaps, kill Ankhesenamun!’

I often wonder now: should I have listened more carefully to Pentju’s diagnosis? What would have happened if Ankhesenamun had died and Tutankhamun married another? Yet she was protected by the brooding shadow of her grandfather and others of the Akhmin gang. Ankhesenamun was certainly mischievous enough for anything. She’d taken Mert under her wing, and that young woman had emerged as an exquisite beauty. Ankhesenamun and Amedeta, being the sly bitches they were, soon realised Djarka’s interest in this lovely young woman. They refused her nothing, often braiding her black hair in a net of multi-coloured glasswork bordered by half-circles of pearls. Gold anklets and bracelets shimmered on Mert’s legs and wrists; a gorgeous gorget of cornelian emphasised her neck; her beautiful body was adorned in the purest linen robes; a purple-fringed shawl hung about her shoulders and silver-thonged sandals were on her feet. They taught her how to paint her face, using green kohl to accentuate her eyes, and gave her presents of the costliest perfumes. They would often invite us to supper, where those two minxes would sit and watch as Djarka and I competed for Mert’s attention. In the end the contest was unequal. Mert remained silent but she could talk with her eyes. Djarka was the chosen one. In the weeks leading up to the military expeditions they grew closer. Djarka coaxed her to speak. I often found them chatting in their own tongue, though never once would she describe what had happened in the Valley of the Grey Dawn. Instead she would simply fall silent, shaking her head, withdrawing into her own private nightmares.

‘Is there nothing else she can tell us?’ I asked.

Djarka swore solemnly that she could not. ‘She remembers her life before the massacre, and what happened afterwards, but if I question her,’ he shrugged, ‘she knows nothing; her eyes go vacant. She remembers her father and her brothers going out to the valley. They took her with them; they were to act as guides and be heavily rewarded.’

‘Guides to where?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Djarka confessed. ‘She remembers her journey out; after that, what she calls the blackness falls.’

In the end I had to let such matters rest.

On the day before we left, Nebamun and Djarka made one final attempt to change my mind. I refused. I did not inform them about my most recent letter from the Lord Ay. I kept that to myself. Ay had couched his request in courteous terms, yet he made it very clear that he disapproved of my expedition. Moreover, he added, if I thought the situation dangerous, I should immediately withdraw the Royal Household to Thebes. I dispatched a courier back saying the crisis had passed and I would consider his request.

On the morning of the eighth day in the second month of Peret, our expedition left the City of the Aten: forty chariots, a train of carts and a corps of three hundred mercenaries. Djarka and Mert were also included, as were the three sand-dwellers, now confident that they basked in high favour. They were well fed, and plump after their long stay as guests in the palace. The journey proved to be a nightmare. The further east we travelled, the more desolate and arid the Red Lands became. The heat turned oppressive. Sand storms blasted us during the day; freezing blackness cloaked us at night. Bands of marauders hung on our flanks ready to exploit any weakness. At times we had to hunt for fresh meat, and on one occasion we clashed with these fierce nomads. During the day we moved like a military convoy; at night we formed the carts and chariots into a protective ring. I had thought the journey would take three weeks in all, following a circuitous route which led from one oasis to another. In the end it took a month. I knew we were approaching the valley when the undulating desert began to peter out; through the shifting heat haze I glimpsed gorse, dry trees and rocky outcrops. The shrubs and trees led towards the oasis at the entrance to the Valley of the Grey Dawn. An eerie place, its rocks and cliffs seemed to sprout from the desert floor, shifting in colour, a dull grey at dawn, a fiery red in the full heat of the day, becoming paler as the day wore on.

We approached the oasis lying just within the valley mouth as the sun, that fiery burst of colour, the tormentor of our days, slipped beneath the far horizon. The darkness spread its wings to be greeted by the raucous cries of the night prowlers. The Red Lands had always oppressed me; that fearsome valley was a nightmare: its rocky cliffs rose out of the sands, whirling clouds of dust covered desiccated bushes, gorse and dried-out trees, casting them black against the sky. The ground grew hard underfoot, easier for our carts and chariots. The tree-fringed oasis was a pleasant contrast, shimmering green with its long grass, fresh bushes and groves of sturdy palm trees. The source of all this freshness was an underground spring. The smell of fresh water and wild flowers was as welcome to us as the most fragrant perfume.

We camped for the night. Carts and chariots were pulled into a ring, horse lines protected by rows of small fires to drive back the predators which circled the oasis from dusk till dawn. Even as we arrived and set up our tents and pavilions, we discovered fearsome signs of the massacre: bones, skulls, entire skeletons, arrowheads, javelin points, a broken dagger and small pieces of chewed leather. Everywhere we looked, beneath bushes, in the shade of the trees or the rocky outcrop around the pools, such remains reminded us we were in a place of ghosts where spirits burned and the dead flamed in a darkness beyond ours. Mert was subdued. She clung to Djarka, muttering under her breath. Beyond the perimeters of our camp echoed the ugly coughing roars of lions and the heart-chilling growl of hyaenas.

The captain of the guard interrupted my evening meal, asking me to join him at the makeshift gate in our line of carts and chariots. He was a Nubian, a foot soldier who had cursed every wheeled vehicle throughout the entire expedition; now he tapped the wheels of a chariot and loudly thanked the Gods for such defence. He shouted at the archers on the top of the wagons to loose fire arrows. ‘I’ll show you why, my lord. You must see this before you retire.’

The fire arrows were loosed, the archers concentrating on one spot. Those eerie growls from the darkness increased. In the light of the falling arrows I glimpsed the prowlers: monstrous hyaenas with great heavy heads, long snouts and powerful jaws; glaring red eyes, their ruffed manes like collars of darkness around their necks.

‘They recognise this as a place of slaughter,’ the mercenary whispered. ‘My lord, they are more dangerous than the lions if they attack in a pack.’

‘Why should they?’

‘They have been brought here by the corpses,’ he muttered. ‘We also ring the only source of fresh water for miles. They have smelled our food from the camp fires as well as the fresh flesh of our horses and donkeys, my lord Mahu.’ His face twisted in anxiety. ‘We should not stay here too long.’

I stayed at the gate, staring out into the darkness, the sweat chilling on the nape of my neck. I had heard about these hyaenas, striped and powerful, and more dangerous than their cousins who prowled the edge of town or slunk into the City of the Dead in search of some morsel. These creatures were ruthless hunters, as well as scavengers. I recalled stories told by desert scouts: how once these beasts smelt blood they’d track an injured man for days, whilst camp fires and weapons, palisades and fences sometimes proved no deterrent. I ordered the horses and pack ponies to be brought closer into the camp and redoubled the guard. I offered rewards to any man who could devise a better way of defending the camp. The only suggestions were to increase the lines of small fires and issue strict instructions how the perimeter was not to be crossed at night. People were to sleep in groups, whilst, even during the day, no patrols should be fewer than three men, one of whom must be a bowman.

The next morning we began the grisly task of collecting the remains. I sent scouts and carts far into the valley, and they returned carrying baskets piled high with bones and skulls as well as scraps of clothing, leather and weaponry. We burned them as an act of purification as well as reverence. We began work before dawn, resting during the midday heat and continuing until darkness fell. The valley was long and steep-sided; caves lay on each side, concealed behind clumps of gorse and bush, each containing the remains of survivors, men, women and children, as well as the bones of their animals. It was a hideous, heart-searing task. One scout brought in a basket of skulls, all belonging to children, as well as the pathetic remains of their toys. The funeral fires were kept burning not just to purify that place of abomination; the flames and smoke also kept back the hyaenas, who, during the day, would watch from afar. Now and again they’d close in, heads down, almost nosing the ground, loping along before bursting into a full, stretched run, only to be driven back by a hail of arrows or burning cloths soaked in oil. At night they became bolder, drawing closer; on the third night they attacked one of the carts, snatching off a guard, dragging him screaming into the darkness. There was nothing we could do to help but stand and listen to his horrific screams, the yelping of the prowlers, and the sound of their powerful jaws tearing him apart. We lit fires on the far side of the carts; archers were instructed to fire the occasional volley of flaring arrows into the night.

My men became restless. The valley was a haunting, sombre place, a hall of prowling demons and restless spirits. By late afternoon the rocks were fiery to the touch, and above us, an ominous warning of what might happen, great feathery winged vultures circled. On the fourth day the hyaenas attacked early in the morning. One patrol became detached from the rest. Three men struggling with baskets were ambushed just within the valley by a group of hyaenas who attacked so savagely, so swiftly, there was little we could do to help. The men grew mutinous. They hated the brooding, ominous silence and feared these powerful creatures audacious enough to attack during the day. At the end of the week I gave the orders for preparations to leave. I had discovered nothing startling, but had collected sufficient evidence to understand what had happened.

‘In all, about four hundred souls,’ I dictated to Djarka, sitting like a scribe, a papyrus scroll across his lap, ‘died here: men, women and children, soldiers, scribes and officials. They included the refugees from Buhen and Thebes, as well as Meryre’s retinue from Memphis. There were soldiers, possibly mercenaries, amongst their company, all fervent Atenists. They gathered here carts, chariots and pack animals, dependent on Apiru guides. They intended to slip north across Sinai into Canaan, protected by a force dispatched from Thebes which consisted of at least an entire chariot squadron, archers and veteran foot soldiers.’

‘How do you know that?’ Djarka asked.

‘We found the wheel of one of their chariots, probably broken off as they were pursuing survivors. General Nakhtimin supervised this massacre on the orders of Lord Ay. Most of the arrowheads found belong to Kushite bowmen, who support the various chariot squadrons. We also found the head cloth of a member of an imperial regiment. General Nakhtimin didn’t have it all his own way; the Atenists fought back. The attack began near the oasis. Some fled into the desert, where they died or were killed by their pursuers or sand-dwellers. The rest took refuge in the valley, hiding in its caves. Nakhtimin’s force must have stayed here for days, hunting down fugitives; scouts have found evidence of their camp fires and latrine pits.’

‘And Meryre?’

‘I suspect Meryre and a group of soldiers, probably mercenaries and scribes, fled at the beginning of the massacre. They must have hidden before making their way via a more circuitous route back to the river.’

I was interrupted by a loud scream, more like the keening of a mourning woman, a shrill cry of anguish from the heart which echoed across the camp. I whirled round. Mert was kneeling on the ground, clawing at her hair and beating her breast. She had silently approached us, knelt and listened to what I had said. If Djarka had seen her, he hadn’t commented, now used to her constant presence. She had been touched by Ma’at; the truth about what I had said had stirred her memory. Djarka put his writing tray aside and hurried to comfort her, crouching down, arms about her shoulders. She must have knelt for at least an hour, rocking backwards and forwards, eyes closed, cheeks wet with tears. Servants and guards, alarmed by her screams, came hurrying up. I drove them away, ordering one of them to bring a cup of wine with a tincture of our precious opium. Djarka fed her this, and between sobs, she gave her own account.

She and her father and two brothers had been part of the Apiru scouts. They had accepted the task without demur, being promised lavish rewards, reinforced by the bonds of friendship between themselves and many of the Atenists. According to Mert, Lord Tutu had led his people out of the fortress of Buhen and been joined by others from Thebes. They had gathered at an oasis miles to the north-east of Thebes, where the Apiru had met them. She talked of at least four hundred people, a horde of pack animals and carts well provisioned and guarded by mercenaries. They had arrived at the Valley of the Grey Dawn and been joined by Meryre and other stragglers from their company. They were in good spirits, determined to leave Egypt, cross Sinai and enter Canaan. Lord Tutu was of Canaanite birth; he believed that in the new territories they would be able to worship their God under the protection of the Hittite king, as well as those princes of Canaan hostile to Egypt.

The atmosphere in the camp had been festive. The Atenists truly believed they were escaping persecution. Many of them cherished the hope that in Canaan their leader, Akenhaten, would once again manifest himself. This was the constant chatter about the camp fires. They also put great trust in the promises of Lord Ay. Their only fear was of troops from Memphis under Horemheb, as well as those Egyptian patrols which guarded the mines of Sinai. Lord Ay, however, had promised a military escort. After five days of waiting this had eventually arrived: chariot squadrons, a corps of Nubian archers and Menfyt foot soldiers from one of the imperial regiments outside Thebes. General Nakhtimin had solemnly vowed that his presence and the sight of his standard would be surety enough for a safe departure from Egypt. He had been cordial, talking to Meryre and Lord Tutu as if they were close friends and allies. Late on the day they had arrived, the massacre began. The camp was being prepared for the evening meal. After a hail of arrows, the chariots came racing in, followed by the foot soldiers. Some of the Atenists had stood and fought; Lord Tutu and a group of priests had fled deeper into the valley.

‘And Meryre?’ I asked. ‘The High Priest?’

‘He wasn’t there that evening.’ Mert wiped her eyes. ‘That’s right: we, the Apiru scouts, stayed on the edge of the oasis. Lord Meryre’s entourage always left just before sundown to go into the desert.’

‘To perform sacrifice,’ Djarka observed.

‘So that’s how they escaped,’ I whispered. ‘They would leave armed with provisions.’

‘How did you escape?’ Djarka asked.

‘I hid in the oasis. Now I remember. I was beneath a bush, my face pressed against the earth. I pretended to be dead. Nakhtimin’s men came through. They began to plunder and strip corpses. I escaped unnoticed. I lay there all night. By the morning Nakhtimin had moved into the valley, which he had sealed off. I found a water skin, a linen cloth full of bread and strips of dried meat. I wandered into the desert. The sand-dwellers found me, and the rest you know. I never saw much of the killing, but,’ she closed her eyes, ‘I’ll never forget the screams: men, women and children, my own kin. Some were sleeping. Others were gathering near the cooking pots. Most were unarmed.’

‘And the mercenaries?’ I asked.

‘They were the ones who fought, the only ones to fight.’ She put her face in her hands and continued sobbing.

Djarka took her back to our pavilion. He made her comfortable before joining me at the gate to our makeshift defences.

‘Have we discovered what you came for?’ he asked, coming behind me. ‘Was it worth it, my lord, to collect bones and burn them?’

I stared up at that valley, more hideous in the dimming light.

‘What did you find here,’ Djarka persisted, ‘that you didn’t know already? Lord Ay simply wished to destroy the last of the Atenists, so he gave them safe conduct here and had them massacred. Will you go back to Thebes, Lord Mahu, and confront him? Who will care? Horemheb and Rameses would have paid to have been part of this.’

‘Rameses, perhaps,’ I replied. ‘Horemheb, no. Rameses is a killer through and through, but Horemheb has some honour, and so do I.’ I turned around. ‘I am searching for something else, Djarka. This valley is sacred to the Apiru, that’s why they met here. I feel it here.’ I beat my chest. ‘There’s something else. Something Ay fears.’

‘He fears Akenhaten will return at the head of Hittite troops and Canaanite mercenaries.’

‘No, no.’ I shook my head. ‘Why did he send Nakhtimin here?’

Djarka couldn’t answer, but just before darkness, a group of my hardiest scouts returned. I had promised debens of silver to any scout who brought in something remarkable. They returned empty-handed, but their sweaty, grimy-faced leader grinned from ear to ear as he knelt before me.

‘My lord, we have found it. Deep in the valley, high up in the cliffs, along a hidden trackway, the mouth of a cave concealed by bushes.’

I pulled the man to his feet.

‘And inside?’

‘Like a temple, my lord. A great cave, a cavern of the dead.’

‘More corpses?’ I asked.

The man fought to regain his breath. ‘Coffins,’ he declared.

‘Coffins?’

‘Burial places,’ the man explained. ‘Dug into the wall of the cave are ledges on which bodies, wrapped in linen and fastened with cord, have been placed. I touched one; it crumbled to dust. There are paintings and, we believe, three corpses from the massacre. I suspect these men were not killed, but were wounded and dragged themselves there to die. One of them wore this.’

He handed over the ring. He had already polished it clean. I recognised the hieroglyphs of Lord Tutu beneath the sign of the rising Aten. If it hadn’t been for the darkness and the danger I would have gone immediately to that cave. I had already given the order that we were to withdraw the following morning. When I declared that we would stay at least another day, a chorus of protests greeted my words. Nevertheless, I was beside myself with excitement. I had to search this cave and see what it held. Djarka was most vociferous in his opposition, until I tired of his hypocrisy. I grasped him by the arm and pulled him away from the camp fire.

‘You knew about that cave all along, didn’t you?’

‘I knew of it, but not its whereabouts. This valley is sacred to my ancestors. They use it as a burial place for their leaders. It’s a holy place, not to be violated …’

‘By the impure,’ I finished for him. ‘I mean no disrespect, Djarka, but I must see inside that cave. I believe Lord Ay was searching for the same; it is one of the reasons General Nakhtimin came here.’

Just after dawn I entered the valley with a powerful escort. We moved slowly, following the winding path, alarmed even by the grains of shale tumbling down the rocky sides. The valley seemed to catch the sun. Dust rose in clouds to clog our noses and mouths and sting our eyes. Above us the vultures circled and in the rocky inclines we caught a glimpse of the sleeping hyaenas. There were caves high in the valley sides but the one the scouts had found was hidden by some clever trick of the eye. You had to turn and look back down towards the valley, studying the rock face carefully before you saw the man-made path. It led up to where a cluster of hardy bush and bramble sprouted in the shade of a jutting ledge.

I told the guards to make camp and remain vigilant. Djarka and I clambered up to the ledge. The gorse was fierce, scoring our flesh as we pushed our way through, and the yawning cave entrance came almost as a surprise. I stepped inside. The impression of being in a dream was heightened by the warm darkness, such a glaring contrast to the sunlight beyond. Djarka had brought a fire bowl. We lit the cresset torches fixed in their wall niches, and the cavern came alight. On one side a series of ledges stretched up to the ceiling and disappeared into the darkness beyond. On each ledge lay shrouded corpses. Some, by the texture of the shroud and the cord binding them, were relatively new; others had crumbled to nothing more than piles of dust and shards of bone. Tutu’s skeleton and those of his acolytes lay deeper in the cave. I examined each carefully. Untouched by the scavengers, their flesh had simply rotted, but some of this still remained clinging to the bones. They were a grisly sight, particularly Tutu, who in his day had been a man of glory, a Lord of Light in the City of the Aten. One of the skeletons had a hole in the skull, possibly the work of some arrow. Savage cuts to Tutu’s left ribs proved he must have known of this cave, been wounded and slunk here with his acolytes to hide and die.

‘Shall we bury them?’ Djarka asked, his voice sounding hollow. He was kneeling in the light of the torches; I wondered if he was praying in what he considered to be a holy place.

‘As the tree falls, so let it lie.’ I quoted the proverb. ‘Tutu wished to die here; let him remain so.’

I was about to move away when my foot brushed a leather sack concealed in a cleft between the floor of the cave and the wall. I pulled this out and gently emptied its contents: a long bronze cylinder, the type to be found in a temple chancery or writing office. I undid the stopper and shook out the documents inside. The first was a map of the valley itself, showing the location of the cave in which we now stood. The second was a detailed chart showing paths and wells in the eastern desert. It marked routes across the Sinai, far away from the Horus Road, as well as the Egyptian garrisons which guarded the mines. The third comprised simple jottings. In the light of the torch I recognised Tutu’s own hand; I had seen enough documents from him. It revealed nothing new, except a list of towns in southern Canaan. The fourth, however, was truly puzzling. Tutu had been an expert scribe, whose command of writing had first brought him to the attention of Akenhaten, yet this piece of smoothed papyrus bore nothing more than a picture of an old man surrounded by leaves. I stared in astonishment. At first I thought my eyes betrayed me. I passed it to Djarka.

‘Why,’ I asked, ‘should the picture of an old man surrounded by leaves be so important to the Lord Tutu? It’s scrawled in his own hand.’

Djarka studied it, then lifted his head, staring at something beyond me. When I looked, I glimpsed the paintings, and the terrible secrets they held, on the wall behind me.