The Season of the Hyaena

Chapter 1

The words of the ancient poem are often on my lips and echo through my heart, especially last night, when I was woken by the gruesome roaring from the river bank. I knew what had happened. I went out this morning, the Nubian mercenaries accompanying me down through the gates of the small mansion, a small, elegant palace, but still my prison. We went to the edge of the Nile where the land rises, overlooking the great forest of papyrus green, fresh and supple, nourished by the black silt the new waters had brought.

‘We heard the sound too,’ the captain of mercenaries murmured.

I did not reply. I do not speak unless I have to. I spend most of my time writing down the truth, or what I think is the truth, about the Dazzling Time, the Shattering Years, the Season of the Hyaena, or so they describe it, when Akenhaten the Heretic Pharaoh promulgated his belief in the one god, the Aten, and built a new city in the hopes of creating a new empire. A time when all of Egypt, the Kingdom of the Two Lands, Tomery, beloved of the Gods, trembled and shook in his presence. Some chroniclers describe those years as a great shadow racing over the land; others talk of a dazzling burst of sunlight. Whatever they say, the Nile still ebbs and flows and the land is soaked in blood. Ah well! I walked along the bank and glimpsed the crimson froth, pieces of flesh floating amongst the reeds. Once again the Nile had tasted blood; crocodiles had ambushed a hippopotamus cow giving birth amongst the reeds, attacking both mother and newborn. They must have feasted well: wine-red bubbles winked and burst on the river’s surface, whilst the tang of blood was stronger than the rich odours from the disturbed ooze.

I walked back to the house recalling the words of a holy man who compared life to steps of a pyramid. Each life force, soul or Ka climbs to a different stage: plant, bird, animal or human being. I could well believe it. I have lived amongst crocodiles all my life, hunted with the most savage hyaenas, flown with the heavy-lidded vultures to plunder and peck on the battlefields of life. I, Mahu, son of Seostris of the Medjay, beloved friend of the Pharaoh, former Chief of Police, ‘the Eyes and Ears of the King’, the Overseer of the House of Secrets, Keeper of the Secrets of the Heart. I, who have seen … well, I shall tell you what I have seen. After all, I have no choice. The Custodian of the Secrets of the Great House of the new Pharaoh, may the Gods bless his name, has demanded that I confess all, that I sit and whisper my secrets like a penitent would to a priest in a Chapel of the Ear. They have shut me up in this mansion with its cool rooms washed in sky blue and its sweet-smelling gardens to finish this task. I sit in my chamber and stare out of the window. The shutters are removed so as to catch the light of day and the cooling breeze from the river. My eye is caught by the glittering water of the artificial pool, or the various greenery of the trees: acacia, terebinth and sycamore. The call of some animal echoes eerily. I start at a flash of colour as a bird wheels against the sky. I always do that, a legacy from the days of battle when the eye is sharp and the heart keen to catch the whirling flurry of an arrow or the shadow of a falling sword, then I relax, I let my body fall slack.

The sun sets, the shadows creep across the gardens. My chamber seems to grow, until it is no longer a writing office with painted walls, their refreshing green borders with dark red bands fade away. It becomes a hall from the Underworld, large and cavernous, filled with shifting shadows. I lift my wine cup and toast the dead as they rise, unsummoned, to greet me. They take their places, smile or glower. Pride of place goes to him, the Great Heretic, the heinous sinner, Akenhaten! They dare not mention his name. They call it cursed, a filthy word, yet to me, the name is like the chord of a harp, the tune of a flute, bringing back bittersweet memories. Akenhaten, the Grotesque, the Ugly One, the Veiled One, with his eerie, misshapen body, hips broad as a woman and pendulous chest; arms, legs, fingers and toes long and spidery thin. ‘The Spider’, a priest from the Temple of Hours called him, but what does he know? What is he but a worm on the earth, a shaven head, with little between his legs, and nothing between his ears?

Akenhaten enjoyed a majesty all of his own, a splendour and grandeur unknown to many. He comes before me like a statue in a shadowy temple with the sun playing on the red quartzite. I glimpse his high cheekbones, those slanted sloe eyes which seemed to rest on the sides of his face. Yet this is no statue, but a face pulsating with power, whilst the eyes glow with a fever I never truly understood. The lips are not of stone but full, red and pouting. In a temper that long jaw would quiver and the mouth spit out curses like Horus does fire to burn millions. And who comes next? Ay, Akenhaten’s father-in-law. A crocodile amongst crocodiles! Commander of the Chariots, Keeper of the Diadem, Fan-Bearer on the Right-Hand Side of the King, God’s Father, Chief amongst the Hyaenas. A liar, adulterer, fornicator, assassin, lecher, who slept with his own daughter and his daughter’s daughter. Ay, the mongoose man, with the clever, smooth face of a scholar; handsome-eyed and pleasant-mouthed, lean and personable, charming, smiling and utterly untrustworthy, a veritable cobra in human flesh.

Horemheb comes next; square and thickset, dressed in leather armour, bracelets on his wrists and arms, a war club in one hand, a dagger in the other. Horemheb has a heavy face, a drooping mouth and a square chin; his aggressive eyes glare at you. A man of honour who would do the most dishonourable things because ambition roared in his heart like a fire in the furnace. Of course, behind him (yes, I’ll speak the truth even though he is the father of kings), lean and sinewy, with pointed face and hawk-like nose, eyes glittering with a malice he nourishes like a mother does her babe, Horemheb’s other self: Rameses, sly and crooked, though courageous and fierce in battle, ruthless in enmity. The other Children of the Kap rise to greet me. Oh yes, those I grew up with in the royal nursery after I was placed there by Aunt Isithia, my father’s sister, that witch-woman with the soul of midnight and a heart reeking of ancient sin. If Isithia comes I always ignore her!

Who else? Maya — oh soft-faced Maya, his chubby cheeks bulging and heavily painted, round eyes ringed with kohl, full lips painted like those of a temple girl! Maya is dressed in his flounced robes with the embroidered sash; his neck glitters with jewellery. I can even smell his perfume, a mixture of cassia and myrrh. Maya, a woman in a man’s body, with a heart as sharp as any woman’s. Maya the financier, with his genius for collecting silver and gold, who could shift the sands of the desert and still find a precious nugget. He sits and simpers at me, rubbing his stomach as he did in life, as if, even then, he knew the source of his own death.

Next to him the only person, the only soul Maya ever loved, my friend Sobeck, lean-visaged and hollow-eyed, burnt by the sun in that oasis prison. Sobeck, who had been taught a brutal lesson about the seduction of a Royal Ornament, one of the concubines of the Magnificent One, Akenhaten’s father. Sobeck escaped his prison. Shrewd and cunning, he’d found himself back in the slums of Thebes, where he had become a dog-killer selling their mummified corpses as offerings for pilgrims. Sobeck, who’d held his own with the Scorpion Men, the sand-dwellers, the desert wanderers, all the filth of the quayside and slums. He fought his way up, like the warrior he was, to become the Lord of Am-duat, the grimy underworld of Waset, Thebes, the City of the Sceptre. In sharp contrast comes Huy: urbane, courtly, diplomatic, with his slender body, wise furrowed face, pointed chin and deep-set eyes. He is dressed like a courtier in his gauffered linen robe and curled wig, fingers and arms tastefully decorated with collars and rings of office. Huy the Splendid One, Overseer of the House of Envoys, the master diplomat, his only concern being the greatness of Egypt and making its enemies tremble before it. Meryre the priest also creeps in. He of the holy lips and sneering eyes. A sanctimonious face, round and smooth as a pebble, bland eyes in a bland face, and yet the most dangerous of men! Pentju the physician, troubled and secretive, arrives too. A little man with his hunched shoulders and narrow face, all anxious-eyed with parted lips.

Oh yes, my past is crowded. The walls of the chamber expand, like a long hall of the Hittites. I sip at my wine as my soul travels across the Far Horizon, yet it does not enter the Fields of Yalou, the Meadows of the Blessed, but some hidden time and place which hangs between heaven and earth. I search the caverns of my soul, the chamber of my heart, peopled by those I have loved, fought, betrayed and killed. He also comes, but he is apart from the rest, like the glow of a candle in the dark. I talk of the Divine Child, the Blessed Boy, God’s Cherished, the Golden One, Tutankhamun, son of Akenhaten and Khiya, his Mitanni princess, the rival of Nefertiti. Oh yes, so I have mentioned her name! Nefertiti, ‘the Beautiful Woman has Arrived’! I always find it strange that the child born to us, the Divine Son given to us, shattered Nefertiti’s love and brought the dream world of the Aten crashing to earth like one of those fiery stars which lance through the heavens. Tutankhamun, with his beautiful, childlike face, so composed, so serene; with those innocent questioning eyes, like a young doe fascinated by the hyaenas gathered around him.

I have already mentioned her name, and she comes with the other, Nefertiti and her daughter Ankhesenamun. Both beloved by me, both so different. Nefertiti with her face of pale gold, glittering blue eyes, all framed by that fiery halo of red hair. She comes in many forms like the mischievous minx she could be, teasing and flirting, or all majestic in that blue crown, head tilted imperiously back as she surveys the world from under heavy-lidded eyes. Behind her, Ankhesenamun, treacherous like a marsh covered with the greenest succulent grass, a trap for any man’s soul! I am an old man but I recall Ankhesenamun’s round sensuous face, those sloe eyes and kissing mouth, her body full and ripe, and I feel the excitement stir. The heart strains. If I could, I’d caress that body and clutch her face between my fingers and kiss that mouth. So, they all are here along with the rest.

I pick up a papyrus pen and wonder where to begin again. How shall I start? The past is like a battlefield, covered in the misty dust of conflict and killing. The war chariots rattle and crash. The horses gallop and charge. The mist shifts; gold, silver and electrum glitter in the sun. I hear the harness snap and stretch, the blast of the war trumpet, the screams of men, the clash and clatter of monstrous feet where the God of battles has sucked up blood. Yes, going into the past is like crossing a battlefield. So, where did it all begin? Perhaps, as all battles do, in the resting time, those days of serenity before the chariots are hitched and the swords are drawn. I shall begin in the last month of the Peret season, when the Nile ran strong and full, washing the black lands with its wet coolness. Yes, that’s when it began again, a full year after Nefertiti had taken the poison I had given to her. I’d watched her life-glow fade and felt her beautiful body shudder in my arms …

We had left the city of Aten and gone south to Thebes. We were all there, in the Lion Courtyard of the Malkata Palace, the Dazzling House to the south of Thebes. I remember it well. The sun-washed limestone courtyard with crouching lions carved in red quartzite in each corner. Garden banks fringed all four sides, their black soil, especially imported from Canaan, filled with every fragrant herb, plant and flower. I can even recall their smell, especially that of the cornflower with its grey leaves and bright blue flowers. The doors to the inside of the palace were closed and guarded by members of the imperial household troop, handpicked by Nakhtimin, Chief Military Scribe of the Palace, Ay’s secretive, close-faced brother. These warriors stood in the shade, heads protected by blue and gold striped head-dresses, leather kilts fastened around their waists, sandals on their feet, long copper bracelets on their wrists, one hand resting on a ceremonial shield boasting the ram’s head of Amun, the other grasping a pinewood spear with a barbed bronze point. They were handpicked because each of them could cast his spear and pin a butterfly to the wall. They were guarding us, as if we needed guarding!

We lounged under perfume-drenched awnings, slouched on cushions or divans or sat on stools, their panels inlaid with ebony and ivory. We talked and we rested. Before each of us stood a small table of acacia wood bearing gold dishes of sliced melon, pomegranate, apples and cherries. In the centre was Tutankhamun, no more than six summers old, dressed in a simple white robe of the purest linen, his little egg-shaped head all shaven except for the lock of reddish-black hair hanging down his plump right cheek. He sat on scarlet gold-fringed cushions under a purple awning, sucking a piece of melon, smiling beatifically to himself. Beside him Ankhesenamun, now fourteen years old, the girl-woman in her thick braided, perfumed wig bound by a green-gold filet, her face exquisitely painted, jewellery and collars glittering in the strong sunlight. She lounged to face her brother, her future husband, arranging her linen robe to emphasise rather than disguise her beauty. She was teasing him as she would a pet kitten and was rewarded with Tutankhamun’s brilliant, innocent smile. Servants holding fragrant pink ostrich feathers ranged behind them, wafting a cooling breeze with their great fans, scenting the air and driving away the marauding flies.

I, as Tutankhamun’s official guardian, sat on his right, my lieutenants Sobeck and Djarka behind me. Ay and Nakhtimin sat to the left: Nakhtimin was being promoted more and more into the Royal Circle to offset the military might of Horemheb. The rest ranged either side of us: Horemheb and Rameses, for once out of uniform. Pentju and Huy, Meryre, Tutu, Akenhaten’s duplicitous chamberlain, and Rahmose, General of the Troops of the Aten. Some had been fervent in the Great Heretic’s cause, others cooler, the rest just self-seeking. They reminded me of a pack of hyaenas lounging in the shade of some rocks. We watched each other, ready to act as a pack, to hunt and tear down any common enemy, or, if circumstances changed, turn on each other. Circumstances were about to change.

On that day, an auspicious day I recall, sacred to the Goddess Hathor, we were watching a stick fight between two of the Nakhtu-aa, strong-arm boys, veterans from the Ptah regiment who had killed three enemies in hand-to-hand combat then taken their hands, penises or noses, whatever trophy had been demanded. These two were the most skilled fighters in their regiment and Rameses had arranged for a display of their prowess. We watched them circle, garbed in loincloths, their oiled bodies coated in dust. They each scored, time and again, until the blood oozed out of sharp cuts and burst welts. They moved like dancers, bare feet slapping the ground, sharp-edged canes raised, seeking the advantage. They were growing tired, wary of each other. I became distracted, my attention diverted by one of those sharp-eared cats much beloved by Ay, a great tabby who had caught a baby hare and was now playing with it in the shadow of a carved lion.

‘Again!’ one of the fighters shouted.

The warriors drew apart, their sticks clashed. Somewhere in the palace a conch horn wailed, cymbals clashed. I turned and glanced at one of the doors. The guards were already opening it. A messenger came hurrying through, sandalled feet smacking the stone floor. He was drenched in sweat, his tight loincloth grimy and dirty; around his neck was the official collar of an imperial runner. The fighters stopped and drew apart. The messenger flung himself on his knees before Tutankhamun, brow touching the ground. Ay snapped his fingers: the messenger rose, hurried over, whispered in God’s Father’s ear, then handed him a scroll. Ay rose.

‘My lords,’ he murmured, ‘we must return to the council chamber.’ A meeting of the Royal Circle had already been planned for the tenth hour; glancing over my shoulder, I beckoned Djarka and Sobeck forward. For once Sobeck was dressed in the linen robes of a courtier. He was always amused at the double life he led, drifting between the Malkata Palace and the grimy back streets of Thebes. Sobeck had proved invaluable to me in relaying the gossip, the chatter, the doings and goings of the various gangs who, during Pharaoh’s absence from Thebes, had grown in power. They’d even launched attacks on the Valley of the Kings in an attempt to rob the royal tombs. In the past few months I had dispensed swift justice. The entrance to the Valley of the Kings was now lined with the corpses of those I had impaled there. Djarka was equally invaluable: olive-skinned and smooth-faced, though his black hair was now greying and he had lost that bubbling merriment. Five years previously he and I had been given no choice but to kill the love of his life and her father, professional assassins sent into the city of Aten to slay the Great Heretic. Both my comrades knew their duty. Djarka carried a heavy Syrian bow and quiver of arrows; Sobeck concealed a long throwing dagger beneath his robes.

‘Take their Royal Highnesses inside,’ I ordered.

Ankhesenamun had pulled herself up; she was glancing narrow-eyed at her grandfather, Ay. Tutankhamun, however, still sat sucking a piece of melon, smiling across the courtyard as if he could see something we couldn’t. As Sobeck and Djarka moved to obey, the mercenaries I had hired from my own people, the Medjay, to the east of Thebes, came out of the shadows of the great carved lions where they had been dozing, enjoying the shade and sharing a wineskin. Sobeck grasped the little prince by the hand and gently pulled him to his feet.

‘Soldier!’ the boy shouted, gesturing with his piece of melon. ‘Soldiers fight!’

Sobeck leaned down and whispered; the little boy laughed, a deep chuckle in his narrow chest.

‘Good, good!’ he shouted, almost throwing himself into Sobeck’s arms.

Ankhesenamun stepped neatly round Djarka, smiled flirtatiously and walked towards me. For a moment she reminded me of her mother, Nefertiti: the same languorous, sensuous yet regal pose, lips parted in a smile, eyes downcast, but when she looked up, I caught her knowing look. She came a little too close. I smelt her fragrance and I could see the line of sweat running down between her breasts. She used the linen shawl to fan herself, turning her head to look at me out of the corner of her eye.

‘Mahu.’ My name came as a whisper, as if we were lovers or conspirators. ‘Mahu, what is the matter?’

‘Your Highness will be informed in due course.’

‘Your Highness will be informed in due course,’ she mimicked, and laughed girlishly, fingers to her face. She snapped open the fan held in her right hand and shook it vigorously before her, those beautiful eyes no longer laughing, but cold and hard. ‘I am not a child, Mahu. I am at least fourteen summers old. I have been a Queen and a mother to a child. I shall be a future Queen and the mother of the heir.’

‘For the moment, Your Highness, you are what you are and I am what I am. You know as much as I do and, I am sure,’ I pushed my face a little closer, ‘that when our meeting is over, God’s Father Ay, your grandfather, will slide into your quarters to share what we are about to learn.’

Ankhesenamun smiled. It was always the same: parry and thrust like two stick fighters, Ankhesenamun flirting, yet beneath that, menacing, acting the innocent, a woman who had slept with her own father and, if my spies were correct, offered similar favours to her grandfather too. A true temple girl, Ankhesenamun! She’d put the best heset to shame! She was dangerous not just because of her beauty but that air of childlike innocence, which masked a heart and wit as cruel as a mongoose. Oh yes, she was Nefertiti’s daughter and Ay’s granddaughter, inheriting every ounce of their cunning.

Ankhesenamun flounced away, fanning herself, shouting out her congratulations to the two stick fighters. She walked so quickly, Djarka almost collided with her, and had to step back, offering profuse apologies. Ankhesenamun just laughed and followed her half-brother through the door. My mercenaries hurried after. They had their orders. Akenhaten’s last written instruction was that I was to be the official and trusted guardian of his baby son. This had also been the wish of Tutankhamun’s mother Khiya, so I had taken an oath which I regarded as doubly sacred. Tutankhamun was never allowed out of my sight or that of Djarka; even the melon he had been sucking had been carefully tested and tasted. I stared around the courtyard. The retainers of the other members of the Royal Circle were emerging from the shadows of the corners, chattering amongst themselves, wondering what news had disturbed the Great Ones. I studied these. Each hyaena leader had his own pack, and I wondered how many of them could be trusted: soldiers of different nationalities, mercenaries, people fleeing from the law in other cities. Some had been fanatically loyal to Akenhaten; I did not trust any of them, yet I dared not act. As Chief of Police I was tempted to advise Ay that an imperial edict should be issued disbanding such retainers in the cause of common peace and harmony. Ay would have loved that! He’d have insisted, whether I was Chief of Police or not, that my scouts, as I called them, should also be banned from the palace precincts.

I sighed and followed the rest through the door, walking along the narrow tiled corridor towards the great council chamber. Nakhtimin’s guards were already clustered before its copper-plated doors of Lebanese cedar. Many of these men were from the Ra regiment, which had been based near Akhmin, Ay’s own town, and they all owed a personal allegiance to what I secretly termed the Akhmin gang: Ay, Nakhtimin and others of their coven. The rest of the Royal Circle were waiting for me. Ay sat on a throne-like camp chair, the ends of its arms carved in the likeness of a lion’s head, the legs in the shape of unsheathed claws. Members of the council sat on cushions or small stools. In the middle of the Royal Circle, five scribes from the School of Life squatted ready, trays on their laps, papyrus pens poised.

Once the chamber had been magnificent, but the years of neglect during Akenhaten’s stay in his magnificent new city 150 miles to the north had wrought their effect. Plaster peeled from the walls. Frescoes and paintings had lost their vibrancy; the blue and gold pillars were beginning to flake. In one part of the ceiling a cornice had come away, and the dust still littered the floor. The palace had been infested by rats and mice. Ay’s response had been to let loose a legion of cats, and the council chamber still reeked of their smell.

I took my seat, wrinkling my nose, even as Meryre, who acted as chaplain and lector priest of the Royal Circle, intoned a prayer to the All-Powerful God. No one dared ask whether he was praying to Amun-Ra, the Silent God of Thebes, or to the Aten, the glorious Sun Disc, symbol of Akenhaten’s mysterious Almighty, All-Seeing God. I gazed round the circle. Apart from Meryre and other fanatics of the Aten, the ‘devout’ as Huy diplomatically called them, I doubted if any, including myself, believed in any God. True, Horemheb was devoted to Horus of Henes, his home town, though he regarded him more as a keepsake, a lucky charm, than a spiritual being. We were the hyaenas, hungry for power, ever watchful of Ay. If he slipped or weakened, the rest, myself included, would tear him to pieces. Yet Ay was cunning as any of us. More importantly, Tutankhamun was his grandson and Ankhesenamun his granddaughter. Although I was the prince’s guardian, Ay had assumed all the power of regent, and none dared question him. We all recognised that everyone in the Royal Circle was marked. We had served the Aten. We had been part of the great heresy. Others in Egypt, generals and courtiers, the mayors of powerful towns, particularly Thebes, had grudges and grievances to settle with us. It was that fear of these others which kept us together, and Ay had proved himself to be the most redoubtable leader of the pack.

Once Meryre had finished his gabbling, Ay sat quietly, as if reflecting on the prayer.

‘My lords.’ He lifted his arms, spreading his hands as if to intone a chant. ‘My lords, look around. This chamber represents all of Egypt.’

A few glanced about them; the rest watched Ay.

‘We must acknowledge,’ Ay continued, ‘that the move to the City of Aten proved to be a mistake, but the will of Pharaoh was paramount and we had no choice but to obey.’

A chorus of assent greeted his words. Ay was chanting a hymn we all recognised, every letter, every syllable, so we always joined in the chorus.

‘The cities of Egypt have suffered,’ Ay continued, ‘their temples neglected, their courtyards overgrown, their treasuries empty.’ His voice grew stronger. ‘Our armies, except for that of Memphis,’ he smiled at Horemheb, ‘lack supplies, weapons and recruits. Soldiers desert in droves, their officers no longer care, the barracks are empty. Worse still, Egypt’s enemies, the People of the Nine Bows, grow more insolent and arrogant.’

Horemheb clapped his hands, nodding fiercely, gazing round, challenging any to contradict Ay’s words.

‘Outlaws and bandits prowl the Red Lands,’ Ay continued. ‘Our mines in Sinai are constantly attacked, whilst fresh news comes about unrest in Kush, whose princes forget to pay the tribute due to the Great House of Egypt.’

I sat, eyes half closed, listening to the litany of Egypt’s woes. The breakdown in trade, the empty treasuries, low morale amongst the troops, rebellions and revolts in this city or that province, the growing threats from across Sinai where Egypt’s client states in the land of Canaan now ignored Pharaoh’s writ and fought amongst themselves. To the north of Canaan a great empire was rising. The Hittite princes were becoming more and more absorbed by Egypt’s weaknesses, ever ready to encroach on borders, threatening to sweep south and occupy the rich valley lands and sea plain of Canaan. I was tempted to interrupt Ay’s speech, but recognised what he was doing. He was reminding us that we were all responsible for Egypt’s loss of greatness. At last he finished and sat, hands in his lap, head down.

After some time he looked up. ‘What is the greatest danger?’

‘Aziru!’ Horemheb spat the name out.

‘Aziru,’ Ay echoed, nodding wisely.

‘A prince of Canaan,’ Horemheb continued. ‘We know he undermines our allies, how he supports the Hittites. Our one great ally there, Rib-Addi, King of Byblos,’ he gestured across to Tutu, Akenhaten’s fervent chamberlain, ‘sent letter after letter begging for help, for just one chariot squadron. Even that letter was never answered, never shown to anyone.’

‘Like you,’ Tutu leaned forward, face contorted with fury, ‘I took my orders from Pharaoh!’

‘Didn’t you advise him?’ Rameses taunted.

‘Yes, and so did you,’ Tutu retorted. ‘But Pharaoh’s will was manifest. No troops were to cross Sinai. Our allies were to settle their own problems. Akenhaten planned to go along the Horus Road and bring the word of Aten to his allies.’

‘Nonsense,’ Horemheb bawled. ‘Akenhaten made a vow he would never leave his city.’

The rest of the circle were drawn into the shouting match of accusation and counter-accusation. Ay glanced at me, then looked away: eventually he clapped his hands and kept doing so until all conversation ceased.

‘Rib-Addi is dead.’ His words were greeted by a low moan. Horemheb would have sprung to his feet but Rameses gently pushed him back on to the cushions. ‘The messenger brought the news. Aziru has attacked Byblos, his troops have sacked the city. Rib-Addi was caught, his throat was slashed like a sacrificial goat and he was hung over the main gateway.’

‘But our ally Tushratta, King of the Mitanni?’ Horemheb protested. ‘Khiya, mother of the Prince Tutankhamun, was his daughter. He promised us help.’

‘The Mitanni dare not move.’ Ay shook his head. ‘The Hittites have sworn a great oath. If the Mitanni intervene in Canaan so will they.’

‘Then we must send troops,’ Rameses urged. ‘Bring fire and sword to Canaan.’

‘Will we?’ Ay snapped his fingers and gestured at Maya. ‘How much silver and gold do we have, Treasurer?’

‘Enough for a twenty-day campaign,’ Maya replied, ‘and then nothing.’

‘Well, General Rameses?’ Ay glared at Horemheb’s ally. ‘How far do you think we’ll go on twenty days’ gold and silver; which troops shall we send?’

‘There’s the Horus and Isis regiments at Memphis,’ Rameses protested. ‘Foot soldiers and chariot squadrons, not to mention the Ra-’

‘Ah.’ Ay raised his hands in a gesture of surprise. ‘So we dispatch across Sinai the only three regiments we can trust, led by the only two senior generals-’

‘We can trust.’ Huy finished the sentence.

Horemheb and Rameses fell silent.

‘If we send the Horus and Isis,’ Ay sighed, ‘all we will have left are our mercenaries and Nakhtimin’s imperial regiment. If we faced revolt or mutiny here,’ he shrugged, ‘how long would any of us survive?’

‘We must wait,’ Maya intervened. ‘The temples and palaces must be restored, the treasuries filled, the allegiance of every regiment guaranteed. Until then our allies in Canaan must look after themselves.’

‘Wait!’ Horemheb shouted. ‘Wait!’ He turned and glared at me. ‘Mahu, you are Chief of Police, and Overseer of the House of Secrets. Internal security is your concern.’

‘Is it now?’

‘You sit there silent,’ Rameses taunted. ‘As if half asleep. Still dreaming about the glory days, Mahu?’

I held Ay’s gaze. I was his ally. He knew that I knew it was not for any liking. We were just men manacled together. We had no choice in the matter. We either stayed together or fell together.

‘Mahu the dreamer,’ Rameses repeated.

‘General Rameses!’ I paused.

‘We wait with bated breath,’ my tormentor murmured.

‘General Rameses, you are a dead man. No, don’t let your hand near that dagger you’ve hidden beneath your robes. Don’t you realise?’ I answered his furious look with my own. ‘Every man in this chamber is a dead man! God’s Father Ay sings the hymn and we know the chorus. Each of us was a friend of Akenhaten, he whom the priests of Amun-Ra and Thebes now call the Great Heretic. We are blamed for what has happened.’ I gestured towards the windows. ‘Ask Sobeck. Wander the streets of Thebes, if you dare. There are men who would pay good gold to see your head, and mine, pickled in a barrel! They would love to either impale us alive or bury us in the hot sands of the Red Lands.’

‘If we had followed the Aten?’ Meryre intervened. ‘If we had kept faithful to our master’s vision?’

‘Shit!’ Rameses shouted. ‘It’s because we followed that vision.’ His voice faltered.

‘That’s right, General Rameses,’ I agreed. ‘Because of that, we are now in crisis. We are so weak, we daren’t even let you out of our sight, not to mention your precious regiments. I have reports of unrest from the Delta to beyond the Third Cataract: conspiracies, covens, disaffected officers, treasonable mayors. Did you know certain powerful ones are seriously considering asking the Mitanni or the Hittites to intervene in Egypt?’

‘Never!’ Maya protested.

‘True,’ I replied. ‘We have no names, yet in every city along the Nile, from the Third Cataract to the Great Green, treason and treachery bubble like water in a pot.’

‘So what do you advise?’ Horemheb asked quietly. ‘That we should be careful?’

I stretched out my arms. ‘On the one hand we have those who hate us because we followed the Great Heresy. And on the other,’ I glared at Meryre, Tutu and others of their coven sitting across the council chamber, ‘there are those who hate us because we deserted the Aten, the Great Heretic’s vision. We have no friends, no allies.’ I gestured at Anen, Ay’s kinsman, who had been installed as High Priest of Amun-Ra in Thebes. ‘He is our high priest, yet he dare not even officiate in his own temple. Have you heard of the Shabtis?’

‘Shabtis?’ Rameses mocked. ‘Statues put in a tomb?’

‘Statues put in a tomb,’ I echoed, ‘to represent the servants who will serve their master when he reaches the Fields of the Blessed beyond the Far Horizon.’

‘Come to the point,’ Horemheb growled.

‘I am Chief of Police, and rightly so. All I know is that there is a group, a secret society who call themselves the Shabtis of Akenhaten. Fanatical followers who believe we deserted their master and so should pay for our treachery with our lives.’

The council chamber fell ominously silent.

‘You haven’t heard of them,’ I continued wearily, ‘because so far their victims have been minor officials.

Priests who served the Aten, scribes educated in its House of Life, merchants and nobles who journeyed to the city of Aten; all are regarded as traitors. At first I noticed no pattern; just another death in Thebes, I thought when I read the reports: a man stabbed here, a boating accident, a fall from a roof, a tainted cup of wine, something in the food which disagreed with them. In the last five months,’ I held up my hand, ‘there have been at least ten such deaths, and the one thing all the victims had in common was that they once served our Pharaoh in the city of Aten before returning to Thebes.’

‘Grudges and grievances,’ Rameses scoffed.

‘Perhaps, perhaps not, General Rameses. But if I were you, I would keep your bodyguard close and your hand not very far from that knife beneath your robes.’

‘So what do you recommend?’ Ay’s words came like a whisper.

‘Swift action, my lord. The Prince Tutankhamun …’ I paused and smiled. ‘See, we’ve even changed his name, and that of his intended wife. No longer are they pleasing to the Aten, but as Tutankhamun and Ankhesenamun their names now bear that of the God of Thebes.’

‘Empty gestures,’ Maya grumbled.

‘Every gesture is important,’ I retorted. ‘We must issue decrees saying that the old ways are to be restored. Such decrees should be posted in every city along the Nile.’

‘And?’ Ay asked.

‘The Kushites should be threatened. The silver and gold tribute must be restored. Merchants must be given every help, the Nile patrolled by marines. Bandits and outlaws are to be summarily executed, their bodies impaled along the river banks as a warning to others. Desert patrols must be increased, marauding Libyans and sand-dwellers taught a brutal lesson: fire and sword, no prisoners taken.’

Horemheb and Rameses were nodding enthusiastically.

‘And here in Thebes?’

I could tell from Ay’s face that he agreed, but he was holding something back. The scroll the messenger had handed to him was still grasped in one hand.

‘Anyone found guilty of treason should face summary execution. Those we can’t trust should be removed from office and dispatched elsewhere. Every one of us here, every official, scribe and officer, must take an oath of allegiance to our new Pharaoh Tutankhamun.’

‘But he is not crowned!’ Huy intervened.

‘He should be, and the sooner the better,’ I retorted, ‘and his marriage to Princess Ankhesenamum proclaimed the length and breadth of the Two Kingdoms.’

‘And Canaan?’ Horemheb asked.

‘Let the pot bubble for a while.’ I wetted my lips. ‘Let us dispatch letters to Aziru proclaiming him to be our friend, our ally. Let us send him as much gold and silver as we can, a token of our great favour.’

‘And?’ Ay asked.

‘Invite him to Egypt and blind him. A warning to all traitors in Canaan.’

Horemheb and Rameses were with me. Maya looked disgruntled as, in his mind’s eye, he measured out all the gold and silver this would cost. Huy remained impassive; Meryre, Tutu and others of the Aten coven looked sullen as ever. One day we would have to deal with them; as Ay had whispered to me, those who were not with us were against us, yet these men still commanded troops and had friends amongst the imperial general staff.

‘Very good, very good,’ Horemheb murmured. ‘But won’t you stir up a hornet’s nest?’ He laughed sharply. ‘Here we are, dyed-in-the-wool Atenists, now demanding the loyalty and allegiance of those who bitterly oppose us, who blame us for Egypt’s present ills.’

‘Forget the past,’ Ay retorted. ‘Let us act as if there was no Akenhaten.’ He ignored the hiss of disapproval from Meryre and Tutu’s hateful glance. ‘Let our young prince be proclaimed as Pharaoh, the legitimate heir and successor of his grandfather, Amenhotep III the Magnificent.’

‘Like that?’ Tutu smacked his hands together. He had risen to a half-crouch. He clapped his hands again. ‘Like that, Mahu?’ he repeated. ‘As if the Great Vision did not exist?’

‘A dream,’ I replied, ‘a nightmare. We were all led astray; now we have returned to the path of truth. We speak with one true voice. We have won the favour of the old gods. Once again Ma’at will rule from the Great Green to beyond the Fourth Cataract.’

‘We will still be blamed!’ Maya shouted.

‘Will we?’ Ay declared. ‘Give a man a good meal, let him drink deep of the wine, and he’ll soon forget his hunger and his thirst.’

‘You have decided on this, haven’t you?’ Meryre shouted. ‘You and your …’ He gestured at me. ‘Your Baboon of the South.’

‘We have discussed this,’ Ay agreed, smiling. ‘We see no other path forward. What do you recommend, my lord? That we all troop down to the Nile and take a barge upriver, back to the City of the Aten?’

‘I object,’ Meryre bellowed.

‘We will compromise,’ Ay declared soothingly. ‘It’s best if Tutankhamun, at least for a while, was moved from Thebes. Let him return to the City of the Aten until,’ he gestured with his fan, ‘Ma’at, truth and harmony are restored. Look, my lords.’ Ay turned in his chair to address Meryre and his coven. ‘The worship of the Aten will not be proscribed; he is just one God amongst many.’ He gestured across the Royal Circle. ‘Our proposal has the support of many. Generals Horemheb and Rameses will bring the other regiments down to Memphis and Thebes; their ranks will be purged, incompetent officers, derelict in their duty, asked to retire.’

‘You mean those owing allegiance to the Aten?’ Meryre asked.

‘No capable officer will be dismissed,’ Horemheb responded.

‘Well, that’s our plan.’ Ay unrolled the scroll. ‘Or at least it was, but I have some news for you which will cast a shadow over all our well-laid schemes.’

‘My lord?’ Huy asked.

‘According to this,’ Ay shook his piece of papyrus, ‘Pharaoh Akenhaten has returned to Egypt.’

neka

(Ancient Egyptian for ‘a serpent fiend’)