The Season of the Hyaena

Chapter 18

For his crowning, Tutankhamun was placed on the Great Gold Throne. Sixteen porters carried it on their shoulders, squads of infantry on every side. The musicians proclaimed their strident sounds: the blast of trumpets, the ominous beat of the long drums, the rattling of the sistra. In front of the throne, the ram-headed Priests of Amun, clad in panther skins, walked backwards, raising silver censers towards the face of their little sovereign, who’d been carefully prepared and instructed on what to do.

We had been in Thebes only a few days when the Royal Circle gathered and the decision was made that Tutankhamun was to be crowned Pharaoh of Egypt. He would hold the flail and rod; his name would go forth from beyond the Third Cataract to the Delta. I had been ignored, invited to meetings of the Royal Circle more as an observer than a participant. People avoided me. I recognised the signs. I was out of favour. Now the day had come. Tutankhamun would wear the Double Crown of Egypt; he would be taken to the Temple of Amun, and invested with the Great Office. I was invited, even given a place of honour, but the silence of the others was ominous. I was a marked man.

Tutankhamun was excited. I participated in, as well as supervised, the gorgeous ceremony. For the first time in almost twenty years a Royal Coronation would take place. The Royal Circle had also decreed that, after his crowning, Ankhesenamun and Tutankhamun would be solemnly married. A day to remember as the Prince was carried up the wide avenue. All around him wafting fans exuded expensive perfume, whilst clouds of incense threatened to hide him. The procession went along the Avenue of the Sphinxes, past the circled walls of the temple and the shimmering waters of the sacred lakes. The heat grew intense. The crowds swelled, a thick hedge of cheering, applauding people. We approached the gigantic soaring pylons of the Temple of Karnak. This was not only the day when Tutankhamun would be crowned; it was also an occasion to show the people of Egypt that the power of the Amun had returned; Egypt’s Gods were to be honoured, the days of the Aten, the One God were over. All around Tutankhamun swarmed priests and prophets, the masters of the ceremony, the courtiers. Of course, pride of place had been given to the Royal Circle, especially Lord Ay in his glorious robes of office.

I, and the rest, followed the Prince through the secret doors of the temple into the icy darkness. We approached the Great Room where the God Amun had his sanctuary. The chapel priest appeared, sprinkling holy water and praying the sacred words: ‘I purify you with this. It will give you life, health and strength.’ Here the Prince was stripped of his garments and garbed in the traditional vestments of High Priest and Pharaoh: a loose mantle over his shoulders and a short kilt with a jackal’s tail hanging from the belt at the bottom. The divine instruments were placed in his hands: the crook, the whip and the sceptre. A false beard of gold was fastened to his little chin. Once he was ready, we entered the vast hall for the Feast of the Royal Diadem, where the coronation ceremony took place. Priests wearing the grim masks of hawks and greyhounds personifying Horus, the God of Lower Egypt, and Seth, the God of Upper Egypt, placed crowns upon the young Pharaoh’s head: first the White Crown of Upper Egypt, followed by the Red Crown of Lower, around the crowns the golden band displaying the cobra head of the Uraeus, the defender of Pharaoh and the Protector of Egypt.

‘I establish my dignity as King of the North. I establish my dignity as King of the South …’ Once that vow was taken, Tutankhamun, to establish not only his authority but that of Amun, went deeper into the sanctuary to lie prostrate before the Naos, the Sacred Cupboard. He then broke its sacred seals and opened the doors. I was there to help him, an exception to the rule. Inside stood a small statue of gilded wood encrusted with gems, the God sitting on his throne, wearing a head-dress surmounted by two ostrich feathers. I shall always remember those enamel eyes, slightly revolting in the stupid, horrible mask.

Once the coronation ceremony was over, we left the temple, proceeding in triumph through Thebes so Pharaoh could show his face to his people. It was a glorious scene: marching troops, rattling chariotry, the air thick with incense and perfume.

By late afternoon, the Ceremony of Procession was over and the great feasting began in the Malkata Palace. I was looking for my own place on the royal dais when I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned. General Nakhtimin stood, smiling slyly, ringed by a group of officers.

‘My lord Mahu,’ he intoned, ‘you are under arrest.’

I let them escort me from the hall, down the steps and back to my own quarters, and that, I suppose, was the end of my days as the Prince’s guardian. The following morning I was summoned to a meeting of the Royal Circle. I was made to stand as if I was a prisoner of war while Lord Ay, acting as Pharaoh’s First Minister, listed the charges against me: my dereliction of duty in the City of the Aten; my endangering the Prince; my foolish escapade (as he put it) in going out into the eastern desert; the uprising; my failure to protect the Princess Ankhesenamun.

The charges were a list of vague, empty words. I looked around for support. Horemheb and Rameses avoided my glance. Huy and Maya squatted on their cushions, heads down. In the end my sentence was house arrest in a stately mansion on a road outside Thebes. Pentju, also included in the charges, was declared officially disgraced. The house three miles north of Thebes, was very similar to the one in which I am now detained, with outhouses and gardens, its high circumference wall closely guarded by Nakhtimin’s troops. Pentju accepted his fate with resignation, joking how we would settle down like an old married couple. I was given a few servants and allowed to pick ten of my mercenaries to join me. I asked for volunteers and the lovely lads responded. We were taken to the mansion and given instructions not to leave under sentence of death or banishment.

Pentju and I divided the house, each taking our own quarters. Neither of us complained. In my heart I knew that it was neither the time nor the place. Sometimes Pentju would ask me why it had happened. I would respond with the same question. During the first few months possible answers dominated my thoughts. I eventually reached the simple and stark conclusion that I was no longer needed. My post as Chief of Police was taken over by Sobeck, who often visited me. There was no malice or recriminations. Sobeck had prospered. He’d put on weight; I often teased him about his paunch and rather heavy jowls. We’d sit in my garden under a sycamore tree, sipping at wine and reminiscing about our exploits in the Hittite camp. Sobeck was a good choice as Chief of Police: as a former outlaw, he knew every trick and turn of those he pursued. He would bring me news of Thebes and Egypt. How Horemheb and Rameses were now in charge of all garrisons north of Memphis, busy fortifying Egypt’s defences, raising new troops and building up chariot squadrons. Horemheb was planning the great day when Egyptian forces would cross the Sinai and invade Canaan. There was little reference to the City of the Aten; it was allowed to die. After the uprising it was abandoned, its palaces and temples, colonnaded walks, avenues and parks given back to the desert. The wells scaled over, the canals dried up; within two years it became the haunt of beggars and outlaws.

Sobeck often asked me why I accepted my fate with such resignation. But what else could I do? When the Prince was taken from my care I was tired of the struggle, the bloodshed and the violence. I wanted peace, a time to shelter and reflect. My life, like water running down a rock, had abruptly taken a different course. Horemheb and Rameses came visiting. They were intrigued by my adventures and often questioned me about the last days of Akenhaten. As the months passed, their visits became less frequent, but when they did come they would always bring gifts, assurances of friendship, and the conversation would always turn to the people of Aten and the tribes of the Apiru.

Djarka and Mert joined me, declaring that they preferred self-imposed exile to a stay at the court. The mansion had many chambers and a spacious enough garden for at least three households. They married, and within months Mert was pregnant. Djarka returned to his old role of being my adviser. He told me to tell Horemheb and Rameses as little as possible, whilst warning me against Lord Ay’s spies in my household. Sobeck was the most regular visitor. He brought me news of the court, the chatter and gossip, mere chaff in the wind. I would ask about the young Pharaoh, the only person I really cared for. According to Sobeck, Tutankhamun was seen very little and kept in the shadows. Indeed, Lord Ay and his granddaughter Ankhesenamun appeared to be the real rulers of Egypt. I informed Sobeck about my expedition into the Red Lands, that strange cave and its dangerous paintings. I also showed him the documents I had found beside Tutu’s pathetic remains. He was particularly interested in Tutu’s drawing of the old man surrounded by leaves. He studied this for a long time before bursting into laughter.

‘What is it?’ I asked crossly.

At first Sobeck wouldn’t answer.

‘What is it?’ I demanded

Sobeck handed back the papyrus.

‘Look at it Mahu, what do you see?’

‘An old man’s head surrounded by leaves,’ I replied. ‘What else?’

‘No, Mahu, look at the centre, keep staring at the centre and you will see another picture emerge. It’s a common device used by artists, a joke, a way of conveying a secret message.’

I stared at the drawing, but could see nothing. Sobeck was most insistent. He asked me to place it on the ground and study it very carefully. I did so, and gasped in astonishment as a different drawing emerged. It was of a couple kissing, and it was easy to recognise the sharp features of Ay and the gorgeous face of his daughter Nefertiti, hair piled high upon her head.

‘A drawing within a drawing,’ I exclaimed. ‘But it’s scandalous.’

‘Is it?’ I glanced up: Sobeck was no longer smiling.

‘You’ve heard the rumours, Mahu? That Ay and Nefertiti were lovers?’

‘Father and daughter!’ I exclaimed.

‘Father and daughter,’ Sobeck agreed. ‘Rumours claim Ankhesenamun is not Akenhaten’s daughter, but her grandfather’s.’

‘Preposterous …!’

‘Mahu, I am Chief of Police. I have drawn my own information from palace servants, who listen through half-opened doorways, or peer from windows. There is even gossip that Akenhaten’s rift with his beautiful Queen first began because of his suspicions about the true relationship between Nefertiti and her father. I can produce a maid, a laundry woman, who babbled about Lord Ay being in bed not only with his granddaughter but with her lady in waiting. Lord Ay truly believes he’s the master of everyone around him.’

‘Could he, would he,’ I asked, ‘harm the young Pharaoh, have him removed; take over the flail and the rod?’

Sobeck shook his head. ‘To do that would cause civil war. Ay has the support of Huy and Maya only as First Minister, not as Pharaoh, whilst in the north Horemheb and Rameses keep a very, very close eye on him.’

The more Sobeck talked, the more I reflected on Ay, and the more dangerous he became. Did he want to be Pharaoh, ruler of Egypt, and was simply waiting for his opportunity? Sobeck brought me news of how Nakhtimin was building up his own army, placing it in garrisons up and down the Nile, even beyond the Third Cataract. Ay was certainly flexing his muscles. In the second year of my exile he dispatched Nakhtimin with Lord Huy into Nubia to crush an incipient rebellion and bring that prosperous province firmly under Egypt’s heel. The army won an outstanding success. Even from my garden I heard the crowds going along the path beside the river, eager to reach Thebes and welcome the victorious troops. Huy brought back carts and barges laden with booty: ostrich plumes, gold, silver, jewellery, as well as many captives and hostages.

At such times I felt a pang of envy, but I settled down, interested in Djarka’s little boy and eager to turn my garden into a paradise. Pentju virtually became a recluse. I enjoyed his dry wit, but as the months passed, he became more interested in the wine flagon and sitting by himself. Sometimes he would not shave or wash. I would remonstrate with him. I could see his health was failing, his mind no longer sharp; I was determined not to follow suit. Instead I became a keen gardener, digging a well, planting vines, laying out herb patches and flowerbeds. I built extensions to the house and a small pavilion for the garden. I was allowed to go fishing on the river; a small punt was provided, but my guards always came with me.

I must have been there about two years, whiling away my time, when, during the second month of the spring season, Sobeck arrived grey-faced. I asked him for news. He mentioned one word: ‘Meryre.’ According to Sobeck, Meryre had moved back to Thebes to carry out assassinations against those he now regarded as his inveterate enemies. Sobeck pointed at the walls of my house.

‘Guard them carefully!’

‘But I’m in disgrace,’ I replied. ‘Meryre-’

‘Hold your response,’ Sobeck interrupted. ‘You, like the rest, have to be punished.’

Sobeck’s words were prophetic. Meryre’s assassins came one evening three weeks later, flowing like water over the walls of my house. Armed with daggers, they killed two gardeners and attempted to rush a side door, but were cut down. Only one survived, but the deep gash to his throat made it impossible to question him. I had the corpses stripped. They were Egyptians, men I couldn’t recognise. From the scars on their bodies I deduced they were veterans, discharged soldiers. Sobeck arrived with his police. He too inspected the corpses and pronounced they were probably professional killers hired for the task. They were tossed into the river. Sobeck arranged for more mercenaries to be hired, whilst the guards around the gates and walls were doubled. He also brought news of other assassination attempts in Thebes. Even Lord Ay had not escaped unscathed. Early one morning, whilst visiting the Temple of Ma’at, he had been attacked by a madman just as he entered the central courtyard of the Karnak complex. Of course, the cobra escaped.

After a few weeks, the assassination attempts stopped and life returned to its peaceful and humdrum pace. Occasionally, Pharaoh Tutankhamun would send me gifts and short letters in which he would always describe his own health and ask after mine. Djarka tried to seek an audience with the Divine One, taking gifts and his baby son to present to Pharaoh. He was always turned away, even before he reached the outer court, by some chamberlain or petty official. Of course, I listened to the stories. Tutankhamun was a recluse. He was glimpsed borne on a litter, surrounded by Ay’s men, being taken down to the river, or, screened by official flunkies as well as an army of priests, processing up to the temples to offer incense and make sacrifice. They talked of a young man of medium height with stooped shoulders and a slender body, with a beautiful, serene face and peculiarly shaped eyes. Ankhesenamun, always close by, became a famous beauty, known for her love of the most rare perfumes, costly clothing and exclusive jewels.

In truth, Lord Ay was the true power in the land, high priest and vizier combined. There were no more references to the Aten. I heard how that city, once the glory of Egypt, was being eaten away by the encroaching desert. Desert wanderers, sand-dwellers and Libyan raiders were stripping its fine houses, and Akenhaten’s beautiful sun temples lay open to the sky. The mansions of the wealthy lost their cedarwood beams and columns to the the owl and the jackal. This was all done quietly, as Lord Ay and the Royal Circle worked strenuously to make people forget the reign of Akenhaten. The army was strengthened, new regiments raised, fresh chariot squadrons formed, stables restocked and great stud farms built. The House of War imported wood and metals for its armoury. The troops were used not only to impress foreign envoys but also to quell the lawlessness in the cities and the Red Lands and along the river. Fortresses and border posts were reinforced. Punitive expeditions were launched to secure the Horus Road across Sinai as well as the routes to the mines, quarries and oases of the eastern and western deserts. Rebellions in Kush were crushed, whilst the military command, under Horemheb and Rameses, pressed for all-out war to secure Canaan and curb the growing power of the Hittites.

Lord Ay, together with Huy and Maya, resisted such arguments. Egypt needed strengthening before going to war. Maya in the House of Silver was busy as a beetle replenishing Egypt’s treasure. Gold, silver, precious stones, lapis lazuli, turquoise, malachite, alabaster and rare timbers poured into Egypt. The temples, too, glowed with power and strength under this great restoration. Their Schools of Life were reopened, granaries restocked, ox pens and sheepfolds filled with the best stock. It became common to see fat priests again, bellies bulging with the produce of sacrifice, their coffers full from the offerings of the faithful. The priesthood of Amun, Horus, Anubis and the rest of the Gods resumed their old arrogance, with one noticeable difference: Lord Ay, that spider at the centre of Egypt’s web, kept close watch on the high priests as he did on every official, scribe, chamberlain and standard-bearer; only in Memphis and certain cities of the north was Ay’s influence checked by that of Horemheb.

The source of all this gossip was, of course, Sobeck. If he had the measure of Ay, Lord Cobra certainly returned the compliment. My friend would laugh about how his spies spied upon Lord Ay’s, as his did on everyone else’s. Sobeck was amused by it all. A hideous mistake; he should never have underestimated such a man! Of course, I tried to warn him. One day — it must have been in the fourth month of the summer season during the third year of my exile — when I was entertaining Sobeck, I tried to tell him the story about a snake-charmer I’d arrested. ‘He was one of those men,’ I began, ‘the most charming I’ve ever caught. He could persuade a chick to come out of its shell; he was so witty I released him unscathed.’

‘I think I’ve heard the story,’ Sobeck replied. ‘But tell me again.’

‘The snake-charmer travelled the villages on the outskirts of western Thebes. He sold a sacred snake oil which, if rubbed on a man’s genitals, made the penis stronger and more vibrant. This confidence trickster amassed quite a fortune until he tried to fool a police informer placed among the villagers. The snake-charmer was arrested and brought before me. He confessed that the so-called sacred oil was nothing more than the juice of rat fat. Of course, no one ever protested, so what wrong had he done? He was right. Do you know of any man, Sobeck, who is willing to tell people that he has trouble between his legs, then tries to do something to improve his performance only to be fooled?’

‘And the moral of the story?’ Sobeck demanded.

‘That’s how Lord Ay works. He fools you, as he charms you, yet the only person you can blame is yourself.’

‘Mahu, can’t you say anything good about him?’

‘Yes,’ I laughed, ‘his brother Nakhtimin is much worse!’

Now, Sobeck was a former leader of gangs and thieves, yet he possessed some goodness, a sort of decency which his recent marriage to the plump, vivacious daughter of a high-ranking Theban merchant brought to the fore. He was contented with the world and at peace with himself. I prayed he was still alert enough to perceive the darkness in the soul of General Nahktimin, a man of hard heart and no kindness, a born killer, a ferocious fighter, devoted to his charismatic elder brother. Nakhtimin was now Chief Scribe, commander-in-chief of Egypt’s southern armies, their regiments, chariot squadrons, troops of archers and mercenaries. He used these troops to massacre the scavengers who’d come drifting in from the desert looking for easy pickings, exterminating them as he did any threat to his power. Tomb robbers no longer pillaged the Necropolis or the Valley of the Kings. Nakhtimin caught them and had them impaled along the roads and clifftops.

‘The thieves came after the treasure, you see,’ Sobeck explained as he sipped his wine. ‘The robber gangs know all about the treasures brought from the City of the Aten. I’m just sorry I missed my share.’ Sobeck laughed. ‘Oh, I see you still have the two statues.’

‘Ah, yes,’ I replied. ‘Pentju received them as a gift from the palace for his care of the young Pharaoh, the only present he was given. He placed them at the entrance to our Hall of Columns. By the way, what did happen to the rest of the treasure?’

‘Let me put it this way, you will find no beggars in Thebes, Mahu. Nakhtimin marched them into the Valley of the Kings to do hard labour, quarrying new caves and tombs. Men, women and children, they were all dead in a month.’

‘Why new caves and tombs?’

‘The Aten treasures were first placed in temporary storage in the tombs and burial temples of former Pharaohs. Now Ay is moving them to places known only to himself, Nakhtimin and others of their gang.’

Sobeck fell silent for a while.

‘He has his uses,’ he murmured eventually. ‘I mean General Nakhtimin. The assassinations have stopped. I hunted high and low without sight or sign of Meryre and his coven — they have disappeared like a puff of smoke on a summer’s day.’

‘Massacred, wiped out?’

‘No.’ Sobeck sighed. ‘They have fled, but I don’t know where, probably out across the Sinai, which brings me to another matter.’ Sobeck pointed across the garden: Djarka and Mert sat next to the Pool of Purity, watching their baby son Imhotep crawl like a little beetle. I leaned forward.

‘Are they in danger?’

‘Not at the moment,’ Sobeck replied. ‘But they did stay loyal to you. Djarka could have left. I would have found him a post, some office at court or temple. Moreover, let’s not forget, both know about the massacre.’ Sobeck tapped his goblet with his fingernails. ‘I do wonder why they supported you.’

‘Haven’t you heard of devotion, friendship?’

Sobeck just rubbed his earlobe; a common habit when he was suspicious.

‘I think Djarka is here to watch you, Mahu, though I don’t know the reason.’

‘Why are you concerned about him now?’

‘Oh, I’m not concerned about them. However, I’m sure General Rameses would like to question them, and I am going to show you why.’

Four days later Sobeck returned after dark. I was writing my journal, describing the coolness of the evening, the scent of the garden where the light from the coloured oil lamps glowed and danced like fireflies. From the river echoed various sounds, the bellowing of the hippopotami almost drowning the fading calls of the birds and the harsh chorus of the frogs. I was sitting on the roof of the house, staring up at the akhakha, as the poets call the stars, the ‘flowers of heaven’, blossoming brilliantly against the night. Such harmony was disturbed by the news of Sobeck’s arrival. I went down to greet him. He slipped through the gate, paused, then whistled into the night. An old man dressed in a thick robe, a tasselled shawl around his shoulders, shuffled through, his papyrus reed sandals slapping on the ground. He was small and bony, his wizened face like a dried-out nut, though he was alert and bright-eyed as any boy.

‘This is Seenu.’ Sobeck introduced my visitor as we took our seats in what I called my Blue Lotus Pavilion. We sat in silence for a while, until the servants, who, I am sure, included Lord Ay’s spies, served us sesame seed cake and chilled white wine. From across the garden, cutting through the noises of the night, came the raucous sound of Pentju bawling out a song we’d all learnt as Children of the Kap. The old man laughed.

‘A fitting lullaby,’ he whispered.

I did not reply. I just hoped Pentju would get drunk, fall asleep and not make a nuisance of himself. Once the servants had left, I closed the door.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, sitting back on the cushions.

‘Seenu was once a scribe of the execution stake where prisoners are questioned,’ Sobeck explained. ‘He is proficient in tongues. He later became Chief Scribe of the Anubis shrine.’

‘That was a thousand jubilees ago,’ Seenu chuckled, ‘when the Great House of a Million Years was ruled by the Mighty Bull, Magnificent of Forms, and I wore the jackal-headed collar. Oh yes, many, many Pharaohs ago.’ He closed his eyes and rocked backwards and forwards. ‘I should be with the sleepers.’ His voice was hardly above a whisper. ‘I should walk with death.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I have passed my eightieth year. I owe my own life to the patronage of the Great God Buto. I am old now …’

He chattered on. Sobeck warned me with his eyes to keep silent.

‘Once my loins were fresh and fertile, my seed came pouring out. I used to sleep the four quarters of the night with slave women on either side.’

Again I made to interrupt, but Sobeck gestured to keep silent.

‘I was scribe of the Execution House, the recorder of the Slaughter Yard in the House of Chains. I answered directly to Pharaoh, but even then I was growing old.’

‘Which Pharaoh?’ I asked.

‘Tuthmosis, father of Amenhotep the Magnificent. Now, as you know, Amenhotep fell in love with a beautiful young girl from the city of Akhmin. She was of the Apiru tribe. Oh, I got to know them all well,’ he sighed. ‘Tiye and her brother Ay. I learned all about the legends of her people: how they came from Canaan; how they look forward to a great leader to take them back; how they were special in the eyes of God. I read their records. I even saw the paintings out in the Valley of the Grey Dawn. I also learned about the Aten, the One God. I visited Canaan. I have studied the Apiru more carefully than any scholar in Egypt.’

‘And then what?’

‘I reported all to Tuthmosis. He was very alarmed. He tried to warn his son, who then was no more than a boy. Amenhotep met Tiye when they were both Children of the Kap.’ The old man held his hand with two fingers wrapped together. ‘They were inseparable, one of those love matches which begin even before the loins are excited. Tuthmosis was advised by his priests against the marriage.’

‘But Tuthmosis died suddenly,’ I interrupted, ‘a mysterious death. Wasn’t he in his late twenties?’ The old man agreed. He stuffed sesame cake in his mouth and slurped wine.

‘Did you keep any record?’ Sobeck asked. Seenu, his mouth full, shook his head.

Sobeck, poking me in the arm, led me out into the garden, telling our visitor to eat and drink as much as he could.

‘Why have you brought him?’ I asked. ‘I know about these legends, you know that I know.’

I heard a sound behind me and whirled round. Nothing, though I was sure someone was there.

‘Seenu tells me nothing new,’ I continued.

‘He lives in Western Thebes.’ Sobeck measured his words carefully. ‘A week ago he was overheard boasting in a beer shop how General Rameses wished to see him.’ I felt a chill, brought on more by fear than the night breeze.

‘I had him arrested,’ Sobeck continued.

‘Who, Rameses?’ I asked.

‘Don’t joke, Mahu. The old man. I gave him a comfortable chamber in one of my houses. I hired a temple girl to keep him warm at night and made sure his belly remained full. He is greedy and lecherous as an old goat. I wanted to know why Rameses was looking for him. He told me about the Apiru. It took some time to get the whole story. Ten years ago people would have dismissed it as the babblings of an old scribe, only too willing to bore you to death for a drop of ale. I also listened to other reports. Rameses has sent spies into Canaan. He has scribes searching the records. He is looking for Akenhaten. He believes he is still alive. He is also hunting for Meryre and growing more knowledgeable about the origins of Akenhaten and the legends of the Apiru. To put it bluntly …’ Sobeck paused. ‘If Rameses had his way, a savage persecution would be launched. They would not only wipe out any member of the Aten, but anyone who has anything to do with the tribe of Apiru. That includes Djarka, Mert and their child.’

‘So what do you propose?’

Sobeck paused, as if listening to a bird fluttering in the tree.

‘I intend to kill the old man.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I have no choice. He will die peacefully in his sleep and I will hand his corpse over to be embalmed.’

Sobeck walked back to the pavilion.

‘Best be warned.’ He raised his voice. ‘The hunters are out.’

The months turned into seasons, the seasons into years. Six years passed. I grew a little plumper. Djarka and Mert had another child, a girl they called Miriam, a companion for her elder brother Imhotep. Djarka now led his own life. He came and went as he pleased. We very rarely discussed the glory days when we had plotted, conspired and fought, either on the battlefield or amongst that brood of conspirators at the imperial court. Djarka seemed infatuated with his wife and children. A husband and father first, rather than a soldier. We grew apart, like the gap that divides a father from his son when the latter moves away to be with his own family. I was still deeply attracted to Mert, but she had eyes only for her husband. It was a true love match. Oh, we reminisced and, when the wine flowed like water, became nostalgic. Djarka warned me not to discuss what had happened in the Valley of the Grey Dawn, and when Mert was present, Lord Ay’s name was never to be mentioned. Their two children were beautiful and delightful. I made up nicknames for them, ‘balls of fluff’, or ‘pots of sweet honey’. If I became bored with my garden, writing in my journal or Pentju’s drunken mutterings, I’d always go looking for them. I did so reluctantly at first, not because I didn’t like children, but because I felt unclean in their presence. I had blood on my hands. I had killed and killed again. I felt like a jackal put in charge of baby ducks. When I described my feelings to Djarka, his face broke into a smile and he punched me playfully on the shoulder.

‘More like a guard dog,’ he replied.

I felt better after that. Perhaps it was the children’s innocence which frightened me. Somehow or other they might recognise a soul which reeked of sin. They didn’t. They enjoyed my games, especially when I pretended to be a lion. I discovered I had a gift for woodwork and would love to carve a giraffe or antelope or fashion a wooden sword or shield. Imhotep, as he grew older, would often seek me out; even when I was squatting like a scribe, he nestled close to me. He regarded me as a great warrior. I was touched and flattered, for this was how Djarka described me. Ah well, it was better that than being called an assassin.

Sobeck’s lovely wife gave birth to twin boys. She too visited our mansion, bringing the children together with an army of wet nurses and servants. I grew to enjoy the long evenings, the feasting and the chatter. Sobeck now heeded my warnings, and did everything he could to pose as Ay’s faithful retainer.

‘There’s nothing like children,’ he once remarked, ‘to make you prudent and careful.’

He also brought news of how the restoration of Egypt’s fortune was growing apace. Nowhere more than Thebes, where new buildings of marble and white granite dazzled the eye. Rivers of treasure flowed in from north, south, east and west. Egypt’s enemies, the people of the Nine Bows trembled, frightened of Egypt’s powerful regiments and teeming squadrons of war chariots. Imperial war barges patrolled the Nile and the shores of the Delta, high-beaked and powerful, crammed with archers and spearmen. They fought off pirates and invaders from the Great Green. I often glimpsed such barges from my rooftop, patrolling the river, standards displayed, great sails billowing out.

People exclaimed how the marvellous days of Amenhotep the Magnificent had returned. Envoys from other nations, even the long-haired Hittites, hastened to pay lip service at least to the Great House, the Palace of a Million Years.

Such reports never disturbed me. I mellowed and remained patient, like a man lost in a dream. I seduced the maids. When I wished to be alone, I put on a broad-brimmed peasant’s hat and tended my gardens. I grew rather bored with flowers and cultivated new types of vegetables and herbs, including an original onion. I became expert in growing capers, not so fleshy but still rich in oil. I wrote a learned paper on this and sent it by way of Sobeck to the House of Life at the Temple of Horus. It was well received. I also specialised in poisons, mixing the juice of ivy with fat berries and other ingredients. My strain was virtually tasteless, or so Pentju told me. He examined it carefully whilst I hopped from foot to foot. Sometimes my physician friend was so drunk, he’d eat or sip anything placed before him.

Pentju showed little interest in Sobeck’s visits, except on one matter. At first I thought he was keen to learn news about Canaan when he remained sober and questioned Sobeck carefully. After a while, I realised he was more interested in the doings of the House of Envoys, which controlled Egypt’s foreign affairs. The generals’ desire for war had been constantly frustrated, even though everybody was becoming alarmed at the growing power of the Hittites. Lord Ay, supported by Maya and Huy, had developed a different policy: they turned to the other great powers, particularly the Mitanni, to check the Hittites. Pentju became more alert than ever over this and questioned Sobeck about Ay’s furious attempts to win over Tushratta, King of the Mitanni.

‘Ay has done everything in his power,’ Sobeck reported on one occasion. ‘He sends envoys to the Mitanni with costly gifts: kites of gold and silver to raise mercenaries.’

Once Pentju’s questions were answered, he would go back to his drinking. He had grown obese and red-faced, and more often than not he was drunk. He could still be a skilled physician and a witty companion, but he insisted on sleeping the day away and drinking through the night. He confided in me that when darkness fell, the ‘demon thieves’ sprang out of the darkness and plagued his soul.

‘They wait for me,’ he whispered, tapping his fleshy nose. ‘I see them lurking in the cypress groves with the fires of hell burning all around.’

Djarka lost patience with him and declared he was mad. I believe he was as sane as any of us. Like me, he was plagued by ghosts from the past, and not all such ghosts are easily exorcised.