by Paul Doherty
‘Aten is glorious.’ He gestured at the carpet of bodies stretching on either side. ‘Let the enemy dead rot,’ he commanded, ‘their bellies swell and burst. Let them stink in the air. They have polluted my Father’s holy place. Let their bones whiten as a warning!’
I felt my hand touched. Horemheb, covered in dust and sweat, grinned up at me.
‘You delayed.’ I leaned down. ‘You should have come sooner.’
‘The chariots carried more men.’ Horemheb wiped the dust from his lips. ‘We were slower than intended but we saved you.’
‘And yourself!’ I whispered hoarsely, pointing to the mercenaries whom the squadrons had brought in. ‘I gave the Captain orders: if you didn’t move, they were to kill you.’
Horemheb’s eyes smiled. ‘I shall remember that, Mahu.’
‘And I shall never forget.’
Escorted by his troops, still singing his praises and removing the bodies from the path of his horses, Akhenaten left that valley never to return. At the mouth of the gulley I looked back. Our men were reforming. The sky above them was growing dark now, the vultures sweeping in. They were already busy on the corpses of Snefru’s retinue which sprawled headless in bloody pools. I murmured a prayer for them and passed on.
Akhenaten gripped the rails of the chariot, eyes closed, lips moving silently. I don’t know whether he was praying or issuing silent threats. However, once we returned to the palace, the terror began. News of the sudden, unexpected battle in the Valley of the Shadows had swept through both the palace and the city. My men had already been prepared. A wave of arrests took place, all land and river routes were sealed. Powerful merchants, notables, and army officers were rounded up and hustled through the streets to be questioned in the palace. Some of the guilty ones had either fled or tried to. A few took poison and those who had fallen under Akhenaten’s displeasure were invited to take the same honourable path. Ay set himself up as Pharaoh’s supreme judge. Terror was his weapon. Solemn oaths of loyalty, underwritten with generous donations of gold and precious stones, were the acceptable guarantee of good behaviour. Those who kept their nerve and stayed survived. Those who panicked and fled were banished, their estates confiscated. A few were singled out for punishment, being offered exile or a cup of poison. In the army and different Houses of State a number of important posts became vacant, all immediately filled by Ay’s nominees. The same happened in the great temples. The priests submitted, the sign of the Aten was publicly displayed and, most importantly, temple granaries and treasures were placed at Akhenaten’s disposal. Wealth and foodstuffs from these were distributed amongst the poor, the petty traders and, of course, what Sobeck called ‘his own starving flock’.
Sobeck and I met soon after and we agreed on well-organised but very noisy demonstrations in favour of Akhenaten and against the temple aristocracy in both Thebes and the Necropolis. These took place, spoiled by a little rioting and arson, but the effect was pleasing. The doors to the sacred granaries and treasuries were opened even wider. Temple guards and mercenaries were absorbed into Nakhtimin’s palace guard. All officers in the army were invited to take oaths of loyalty. Very few refused. Rameses and Horemheb were promoted to full Colonels, Scribes of the Army, responsible for the Seth and Anubis regiments, now deployed around Thebes. Changes were also published in provincial towns. The Magnificent One, now a recluse in the House of Love, could do nothing. Our persecution of the Amun cult and its supporters proved unexpectedly easy. In Thebes and elsewhere a deep resentment surfaced at the arrogance, wealth and growing power of Karnak and Luxor. Other temples, both in Thebes and elsewhere, rejoiced at the news of their disgrace and Akhenaten received congratulations and assurances of loyalty from the temples of Horus in the Delta, Ra at Heliopolis, Ptah at Memphis, Osiris at Abydos and elsewhere.
Queen Tiye assumed responsibility for the House of Envoys, dealing with matters beyond Egypt’s borders. Pentju became Supervisor of the Royal House of Life. Maya, Overseer of the Royal House of Silver. I was given the House of Secrets. I visited its well-guarded precincts to assume the seals of office, and enjoyed wandering through its courtyards and gardens, visiting the small houses and mansions where the scribes worked. I inspected the dungeons, which were surprisingly empty, and then solemnly processed across a central courtyard to meet its School of Scribes in the hall of columns – a low, dark building shot with rays of light. Flanked by Djarka and three burly mercenary Captains, I displayed my commission and informed them that I was to be Overseer of the House of Secrets with immediate effect. They would take an oath of loyalty to me and would be lavishly rewarded for faithful service. If they found such an oath distasteful they must resign, receive a temple pension and be invited to finish their days farming as far away from me as possible. They were to be given the afternoon to reflect upon my offer and gather again at the ninth hour to take the oath.
‘However,’ I warned, walking down between them, ‘if you take the oath and later betray me, or my masters, you will be impaled, your families sold into slavery and your estates confiscated.’
They sat in silence and heard me out, not that they had much choice. Moreover, like the administrators, they were still stunned by the news of the battle in the Valley of the Shadows a few days earlier. They were also shocked, their loyalty to their own masters severely shaken. Court intrigue and political confrontation were part of their life. However, for highranking servants of Pharaoh to invite enemies of Egypt onto her sacred soil, to kill her Prince and ravage his city was a heinous blasphemy. I left them to their thoughts and asked the Chief Scribe to open the Chamber of Secrets where the most confidential and valuable records were kept. He took me down and unlocked the heavy cedar door studded with bronze clasps and ushered me into a windowless room with dark-red walls; countless alabaster oil jars placed in niches provided light. I demanded the records for Akhenaten and the children of the Kap. The Chief Scribe, now sweating and trembling, spread his hands, saw the look on my face and fell to his knees with a moan. ‘I am sorry, my lord,’ he gabbled. ‘God’s Father Hotep removed them two days ago.’
I replied that I did not wish to see him again. I added that there were good farms to be bought in the Delta and, if I found him in Thebes the day after next, I would have him impaled in the courtyard outside. I left the fellow to his trembling and met the other scribes, all of whom took the oath. Ay had already given me a list of supporters in the House of Secrets. I chose a lean, youngish-looking Canaanite called Tutu, blunt of speech, sharp of wit and shrewd-eyed. He also had a dry sense of humour, promising to be the most loyal and true Chief of Scribes.
‘After all,’ he added, ‘the worst thing after impalement would be to become a farmer.’
I inspected the House of Secrets but Hotep had done his task well. Many valuable records and manuscripts had simply disappeared. Ay had ordered that, for the moment, neither Hotep nor Shishnak be touched. Nevertheless, I ringed God’s Father Hotep’s opulent mansion with mercenaries as ‘protection during this emergency’ and did the same for the Priests’ Quarter at Karnak. I became very busy exploiting the growing feeling of outrage in Thebes and throughout the cities along the Nile, at the attempted assassination of Pharaoh’s beloved Co-regent. Ay’s agents were also busy. The chorus of support for Akhenaten swelled into a hymn to be heard on everyone’s lips. Foreign envoys visited the Palace of Aten with assurances of support. Mayors and high priests flocked to Akhenaten’s splendid receptions in the opulent halls or gorgeous gardens of the Malkata Palace. The immense House of Silver was opened. The treasure of the temples became a river, an unending source of gifts and bribes.
In the month following the Battle in the Valley of the Shadows, Ay and I worked tirelessly, silencing all opposition and encouraging the stream of flattery and praise for our master. Hotep stayed in his mansion tending his garden and composing poetry. Everyone at court realised he had been involved in treason and conspiracy yet he was still the Magnificent One’s closest friend, the architect of the gl
ory of the old Pharaoh’s reign. Karnak was different. Our spies amongst the priests reported growing divisions and feuds, open muttering which eventually spilt into fierce resentment and revolt at the way Shishnak had managed temple affairs. Bereft of support in either Karnak or Luxor, Shishnak did what I prayed he would. He tried to flee, dressed as a woman, accompanied by a few acolytes. He took a barge North looking for sanctuary. I was waiting for him, with four war-barges full of mercenaries and marines. We intercepted Shishnak’s craft, sank it and all aboard, except for Shishnak whom a boarding party plucked screaming from the stern before I gave the order for the Karnak barge to be rammed. Shishnak was bereft of all dignity, a comical figure in his rather gaudy wig, fringed shawl and gauffered linen robe. I insisted that he wear them even as I bound his arms, ignoring his pleas for mercy. I took him to the Palace of the Aten for summary trial before Akhenaten, Nefertiti, and Ay. He was greeted with mocking laughter followed by punches and kicks. Nefertiti, resplendent in her robes, clawed his cheek and spat into his face. Akhenaten punched him in the stomach whilst Ay lounged in his chair and roared with laughter. Shishnak did not face death courageously. He begged and bawled. He tried to plead and bargain. When this was rejected he fell sullenly quiet, refusing to answer the charges of treason and murder.
‘You killed my brother!’ Akhenaten bellowed. ‘You intended to murder me! You have always wanted my death. You used the temple gold to bribe the Libyans. You suborned Snefru. You attacked,’ he gestured at me, ‘my friend.’ He punched Shishnak in the face, splitting his upper lip and drawing blood from his nose. ‘You, a priest of Amun, who wipes the arse of a wooden idol and plots the murder and destruction of God’s Holy One.’
‘No!’ Shishnak wailed, his painted face now splattered with blood, tears and sweat, the ridiculous wig hanging askew. ‘It was not me but God’s Father …’
‘God’s Father?’ Nefertiti yelled, her beautiful face contorted with rage. ‘God’s Father! How dare you give that viper of a traitor such a title!’ She lunged from her chair, a pointed hair-clasp in her hand and gouged the side of Shishnak’s neck. The man screamed, turning on his knees as he tried to hobble towards me.
‘Mahu,’ he whined, ‘for pity’s sake!’
I knelt beside him and removed that ridiculous wig and wiped his face with a damp cloth. I held a cup of wine laced with myrrh to his lips.
‘Drink,’ I urged.
Shishnak did so even as Nefertiti screamed at me. Akhenaten protested at the cup being sullied while Ay sat smug and pleased as a cat revelling in the scene.
‘Drink,’ I repeated. ‘Shishnak, you are going to die. All you must do is decide how.’
‘Confess,’ Ay drawled. He played with the bowl of iced melon in his lap. He sucked on a piece, then offered the bowl to Akhenaten.
‘Confess,’ I urged. ‘Shishnak, you plotted our deaths – the Holy One, his Great Wife, God’s Father Ay and myself. Would you have shown me pity, would you have laughed as I was impaled or buried alive in the Red Lands?’
Shishnak drank greedily from the cup.
‘You are like a soldier,’ I continued. ‘You chose to go to war and you lost. Go into the night like a man.’
I recalled the Jackal leader chuckling at me, the ice-cold terror I felt on that nightmare river journey. ‘I can do no more.’
I let him drain the cup. Djarka joined us in the hall of columns. He fastened a cord round Shishnak’s forehead, looped in a small rod and began to turn. Shishnak’s screams were hideous. Akhenaten called for a halt. The Hittite Orchestra of the Sun was summoned, gathering at the far end of the hall, and ordered to play as loudly as possible. Djarka returned to his task. Shishnak’s eyes bulged, face turning a purple-red, veins standing out. Every so often Akhenaten would crouch before him.
‘Yes, Shishnak?’ he would ask.
Nefertiti became interested in a floral design she was painting. Ay returned to the reed basket of documents on the floor beside him. They only became interested when Shishnak broke. He talked in exchange for a speedy death and honourable burial. In the end he simply confirmed what we already knew: the plot against Akhenaten at the Temple of Karnak; the unfortunate death of Tuthmosis; the bribing of the Libyans with gold; the suborning of Snefru and the attack on me. To give him credit he took full responsibility and would give no other name. By now he knew he was going to die, determined to salvage whatever dignity he could.
‘I can tell you no more.’ He shook his head, his face a dreadful mass of blood and bruises. ‘As you say, Mahu, I fought and lost.’
I crouched before him. ‘Murder, assassination, attempted regicide, blasphemy, high treason,’ I declared. ‘Fitting tasks for a High Priest of Amun.’ I paused. ‘Surely you have other names?’ I picked the bloody cord from the floor and handed it back to Djarka.
‘Rahimere,’ Shishnak stuttered.
‘He’s already dead from fright.’
‘Or poison,’ Nefertiti said coquettishly.
‘And God’s Father Hotep?’ I asked.
Shishnak nodded. ‘Always Hotep,’ he sighed. ‘From the very beginning it was always Hotep.’
Nefertiti herself brought the cup. She squatted on cushions and, head to one side, watched Shishnak intently as he drank the poisoned wine. Akhenaten lounged in his thronelike chair, one finger to his mouth, the other beating a tattoo on his arm as if measuring the music of his orchestra. Ay composed a poem, ‘The Death of Amun’. I walked away. Eventually, Shishnak ceased his death groans. Akhenaten stood over the corpse.
‘Nakhtimin!’ he shouted.
The new Chief of the Army of the Palace hurried in.
‘Burn this.’ Akhenaten kicked the corpse.
‘I thought …’
‘You thought wrong, Mahu. I think right.’
The following afternoon I visited Hotep. I found him in his luxurious, well-laid out garden, sitting on a high-backed cushioned chair, positioned to catch both the sun as well as the welcome shade of an overhanging sycamore tree. Dressed in an elegant robe, head and face shaved and oiled, he was staring out across the flowerbed, a goblet of wine on the table before him. A cowed servant had ushered me in, explaining in a frightened whisper how everyone else had fled.
‘The mercenaries protecting me are courteous.’ Hotep didn’t even glance up as I approached. ‘I recognised the Captain. We once served together in Kush. He has been very kind, Mahu, but very firm. He was to protect me. I was not to leave.’ Hotep gestured at the cushions piled on the other side of the table. ‘But I didn’t want to leave, Baboon of the South. Well’ – his smile widened – ‘what do you bring me, life or death?’
‘Death.’
‘I thought so.’
‘But a merciful one.’
‘Pharaoh can remove the breath from a man’s nostrils and mouth,’ Hotep declared, ‘but he cannot direct a man’s soul.’ He lifted a hand. ‘Listen, Mahu. There is nothing more soothing than the love call of a dove. I am going to miss all this.’
‘You were expecting me?’
‘I heard about Shishnak. My servants were allowed down into the marketplace. Poor Shishnak,’ he sighed, ‘such a fool. What a dreadful mistake he made. I knew we were finished.’
‘Mistake?’ I asked.
‘The Libyans.’ Hotep sipped at the wine. ‘It was his idea. Oh, don’t worry, I went along with it though I considered it a mistake then, and I still do.’
‘So why did you continue?’
‘Sit down, Mahu, and I’ll tell you.’
He waited until I was comfortable and offered me some wine. I refused.
‘The Grotesque should have been strangled at birth.’ Hotep leaned forward, cradling the cup. He spoke, head to one side, as if talking to himself. ‘No, more than that! The Magnificent One should never have married that Sheshnu bitch, Tiye, her head full of visions, her mouth babbling dreams about an invisible, all-seeing god.’ Hotep sighed. ‘But the Magnificent One always had his heart between his legs. In her youth, Mahu, Tiye
was more resplendent than the sun! She was truly beautiful, most skilled in the art of lovemaking.’ He grinned at me. ‘The Magnificent One himself told me that.’ He paused and leaned back in the chair. ‘I was the Magnificent One’s friend. True scribe, Chief Architect. I built temples, magnificent palaces the length of the Nile but Tiye was always whispering in his ear. The Magnificent One did not understand her idea of a universal god, so she fastened on the Aten, the Sun Disc as its manifestation. She also talked about the Messiah, a Prince who would come and change all things. The Magnificent One laughed. Then Crown Prince Tuthmosis was born: comely, a fitting Prince for Egypt, followed by the Grotesque. The priests, with their soothsayers, horoscopes, predictions and prophecies, wanted him dead.’
‘But you didn’t believe those?’
‘No, I didn’t. What concerned me was that Tiye saw the Grotesque as the Chosen One. The Magnificent One wanted him dead. Tiye pleaded for his life. I knew what the wily bitch would do. She kept the Grotesque out of sight, raised in Heliopolis where his cunning little heart was filled with teachings about the Invisible One, the Aten, and how he was the Aten’s Holy One. Years later, Tiye tripped into the Divine One’s bedchamber with a new scheme. The Grotesque was growing up. Why couldn’t he join certain, selected children of the Kap? I put an end to that nonsense. I had him shut up in the pavilion, guarded by men as grotesque as himself.’
‘You tried to kill him?’
‘Of course I did – poisoned wines, poisoned foods, that fanatic down by the quayside. All my work. Then he joined the army on the Kushite campaign. Tiye was insistent that he join the children of the Kap, that he see military service.’
‘You sacrificed Colonel Perra, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did. I bribed the Kushite chieftains with silver. They were to butcher Perra and attack his camp. In one blow I’d rid the world of the Grotesque’ – he raised his cup – ‘as well as the other children of the Kap.’ He shifted the cup to one hand and pointed at me. ‘I was already growing concerned about you, Mahu. More importantly, I half believed the ranting of the priests. The Grotesque’s life seemed to be charmed.’