by Paul Doherty
Akhenaten’s hand moved to cover Nefertiti’s. For a short while fear flared in his eyes, a fleeting expression which disappeared as he gave vent to his rage. At first he just sat banging his right fist up and down on the arm of his chair. Eventually, he sat back and, with his sandalled foot, kicked away the table before him, sending manuscripts, inkpots, and writing-pads scattering over the gleaming floor. He was not staring at any of us but sat eyes glazed, lips moving as if he was talking to someone we could not see or hear. Nefertiti tried to soothe him but he pulled his hand away. Ay whispered in his ear but Akhenaten made a cutting movement with his hand and sprang to his feet. Immediately we all had to make obeisance, pushing back our cushions, going down to press our foreheads against the cold floor. When I glanced up, both Akhenaten and Nefertiti had left the chamber. We had no choice but to remain kneeling. Akhenaten was absent for at least two hours, yet no one, not even Ay, dared move: meetings of the Royal Circle were not over until Pharaoh decreed it. A worried-looking messenger arrived bursting through the half-open doors behind the throne and Ay hurried out. Horemheb, groaning loudly, sat back on his heels whilst Rameses, in a show of temper, simply pulled his cushions towards him and made himself as comfortable as possible.
At last chamberlains announced the return of the Divine One who, accompanied by Nefertiti and Ay, swept into the chamber. Akhenaten accepted our obeisance and sat down on the throne. He hardly waited for us to take our positions before taking the flail and rod handed to him by Ay and, crossing his arms, issued a decree which would have an effect throughout Egypt: the complete and utter destruction of the cult of Amun. Statues were to be removed and destroyed. All references to the god, be they on a public monument or a private tomb, were to be summarily removed. Anyone who objected or resisted was to be treated as a traitor and dealt with accordingly. The King’s writ would run from the Great Green to beyond the Third Cataract and even across Sinai to any temple, chapel or tomb which carried a prayer, an inscription or a carving to Amun the Silent One of Thebes. We sat in shocked silence listening as Akhenaten’s voice carried through the chamber. When he had finished Akhenaten pointed the flail at Horemheb and Rameses. ‘You are responsible for the implementation of this decree and it is immediate! Mahu, you are to search out the Sekhmets. You are to arrest them. You are to destroy them and anyone connected with them. This is Pharaoh’s speech, this is Pharaoh’s will and our will shall be done!’
Horemheb and Rameses might curse and complain in private but Akhenaten’s decree was written out by scribes and despatched to every village and city throughout the Empire. Horemheb and Rameses were given explicit instructions to move into Thebes and carry out his orders, even if it meant the removal of inscriptions in the Royal Necropolis where the Magnificent One lay buried. Of course, Queen Tiye, Ay and others tried to advise caution and prudence but Akhenaten and Nefertiti were united on this. They believed the Sekhmets had been hired by the priests of Amun so they were determined to cut out that cult, branch and root. Within a year, Akhenaten boasted, Amun would be no more!
Horemheb and Rameses met with little resistance. Their troops, not to mention the mercenaries, were paid directly out of the Royal Treasury. Akhenaten had shown great cunning. He had not struck at the other gods such as Osiris at Abydos or Ptah at Memphis but only Amun of Thebes. The other priests and temples bemoaned such attacks but they were secretly pleased to see the supremacy of the Theban god shattered once and for all, his temples dishonoured, his priesthood scattered. Of course there were riots and disturbances, particularly in Karnak and Luxor, but Horemheb’s Syrian archers and Kushite mercenaries brutally repressed them.
My concerns were the Sekhmets. I quietly passed instructions for all entrances to the palace to be closely guarded. Food and wine served to the Divine One was always to be tasted. Day and night I continued my hunt. One thing I did discover. The Sekhmets had left a trail of destruction in the cities along the Nile except for one place, Akhmin, the home of Nefertiti and Ay and the rest of their tribe. Why was this? Did they come from that city? Were they members of the Akhmin gang? But who? Ay and Nefertiti’s fortunes, not to mention those of the Queen Mother Tiye, were closely bound up with Akhenaten and his great religious vision. Of course, as I reasoned to Djarka, I may have got it wrong. Other cities could report nothing about the Sekhmets. I found it strange, perhaps a mere coincidence, that Akhmin was one of these. I went through police report after police report. A dim picture of the Sekhmets emerged, though sometimes it was more distinct than others.
‘It would seem,’ I confided to Djarka, ‘that the Sekhmets are respectable and wealthy. They move up and down the River Nile with impunity. There may be two of them, possibly man and wife, that’s all I have learned.’
I returned to my searches and in doing so stumbled across something else. I became interested in a family who had moved into the Street of Scribes; they constantly petitioned the Great Writing House for employment at the palace. The group consisted of a man, his wife and their three grown sons. I had the house watched and managed to bribe one of the servants. He eventually told us a different story. The sons in question did not belong to the family but were priest-scribes from the Temple of Amun in Thebes. We raided the house, arrested everyone and went through their documents. Eventually we applied torture, whipping them on their legs and the soles of their feet. One of the younger men broke down and confessed. They had been forced to leave Thebes after the Temple of Amun had been closed and its priestly rank depleted. They had used papyrus and paid forgers to draw up false documents and arrived in the City of Aten eager for employment. Of course I had to submit this report to the Great House. Akhenaten himself, accompanied by Nefertiti and Ay, came down to question the prisoners. In his retinue came Tutu (I’m sure he kept Akhenaten advised of all my doings) and Meryre whose look of smug piety was more offensive than ever.
Akhenaten, fervently supported by Ay, truly believed I had discovered the Sekhmets. Of course, I had found no amulet or any reference to Sekhmet amongst the possessions of these so-called conspirators but Akhenaten refused to listen. The very sight of his enemy, the fact that they had lied, was evidence enough. He brushed aside their protests that they were merely scribe priests of Amun attempting to find fresh work. Ay, too, would not listen to their objections. He regarded the false documents and the small bundle of weapons they had hidden in their house as evidence of their guilt. Akhenaten himself passed sentence. The woman, the wife of the elder priest, was banished to the Red Lands. The four males were taken out into the desert and summarily executed.
Of course I was hailed as the hero of the hour, given fresh Collars of Gold and wine from Akhenaten’s own cellar. My brow was blessed with sacred oil. Akhenaten summoned me formally before the Window of Appearances where Nefertiti showered me with scented rose petals. I did my best to reason with Ay.
‘They were not the Sekhmets,’ I protested. I paced up and down his palatial chapel. ‘They have been conspirators, they may have had malice in their hearts. Only the gods know …’
‘Pardon?’ Ay called out.
I beat my breast. ‘Only the One who sees all things truly knew what was in their hearts, but I do not think they were the Sekhmets.’
‘Why not?’
‘They were too clumsy, too easy to discover. Moreover, they had spent most of their lives in Thebes, yet we know from police reports that the Sekhmets have been busy in Memphis and Abydos.’
‘They lied,’ Ay countered. ‘Assassins always lie to protect themselves. Mahu, be content. Pharaoh has smiled on you. You have won Pharaoh’s favour. The task he assigned you is now finished.’
I stared at that cunning face, those eyes which betrayed nothing. Was it Ay who’d hired the Sekhmets? Was that why he was so eager to pass the blame onto the scribe priests? Ay with his genius for questioning, for weighing everything carefully in his own dark heart. Why had he been so quick to point the finger of accusation? I bowed, quickly left and returned to my searches. I had almost
given up hope, decided to let matters be and dismiss Sobeck’s report as idle babble, rootless chatter when, one night, Djarka let slip a remark which made my heart skip a beat. I’d stumbled, quite unexpectedly, on the identity of the Sekhmets.
Mahu, leaning on his staff, listens to the news: the whereabouts of some malefactor has been discovered.
(Scene from Mahu’s tomb at El-Amarna, the City of the Aten.)
Chapter 18
Horemheb and Rameses hunted Amun and all his followers in the temples and along the avenues and streets of Thebes: not even private tombs were safe. I quietly laughed at the stories of how Akhenaten’s agents broke the seals of sepulchres and went in to wipe out the picture of a goose, sacred to Amun, from paintings on the wall. In the City of the Aten Meryre and the rest of the toadies, those sanctimonious hypocrites, rose to the occasion only too eager to prove their subservience and unquestioned loyalty. Houses, shops and warehouses were raided, statuettes of any other god seized and destroyed. Those who had offended the majesty of the Aten were publicly ridiculed, being placed on donkeys, their faces towards the tails and paraded through the streets. It was now a crime in the City of the Aten to praise the wrong god, to honour some other deity. A growing restlessness manifested itself, not helped by shooting stars scrawling the heavens at night and heartchilling rumours about a hideous pestilence which had broken out across Sinai.
I continued my hunt for the Sekhmets. One question still puzzled me. I knew who they were and had a hardening suspicion about who had hired them. I had reached the conclusion that they worked for one person and one person alone, so how had Sobeck’s spies come to know that someone was searching for the Sekhmets along the alleyways and the streets of Thebes? Maybe the person responsible for the assassins had deliberately spread the rumour about Sekhmets being hired in order to lay the blame at the door of Amun – which Akhenaten had been only too happy to accept. I dared not trust any of my agents or spies, nor could I inform Djarka, so I went out at night to watch the house myself.
My long vigil proved my suspicions were correct. So, when Makhre and Nekmet invited Djarka and myself to a sumptuous meal of clover and fish served in a special sauce, I eagerly accepted. Their eating-house had been closed for the evening, and Makhre and Nekmet acted as both our hosts and servants. We ate on the flat roof of the house overlooking an elegant courtyard. A small fountain splashed and countless flower baskets sent up their own fragrance to mingle with the sweetness from the pots of frankincense and cassia arranged in the shadow of the parapet along the roof terrace. The meats were delicious, the sauce fresh and tasty to the palate, the bread sweet and soft, laced with carob seeds and a dash of honey whilst the wine was the richest from the black soil of Canaan. It was a beautiful evening with the sky changing colour and, as the sun set, the eastern cliffs dazzled in its dying rays. I was careful of what I ate and drank as I studied this precious pair: Makhre in his white robes, head and face gleaming with perfumed oil, Nekmet soft-skinned and doe-eyed, resplendent in her pleated robes and delicate jewellery. Even then I was arrogant; I did not know the full truth, the hideous secret which would eventually bring so many dreams crashing down. At that moment in time I was only concerned with Djarka and his love for this elegant young woman. Eventually I decided to confront her. As Nekmet served me a dish of lettuce garnished with oil and herbs, Djarka was teasing her about flirting with me. Makhre was laughing. I could take no more. Instead of accepting the bowl I grasped her wrist so tightly she winced.
‘You are from Akhmin?’
‘No, we’re not,’ Makhre scoffed but his eyes became watchful.
‘But you told Djarka the other day that you were?’
‘What?’ Makhre turned to his daughter. She shook her head.
‘But you did.’ Djarka, now alarmed, cradled his cup, not knowing who to stare at. I let go of Nekmet’s hand.
‘You are from Akhmin,’ I repeated. ‘You told Djarka, Nekmet, that you were born there. I am sure it was a slip. If you were there, so were your mother and father. So why do you lie now?’
The banquet was over. Makhre and Nekmet’s faces betrayed them. For the first time ever they had been confronted with their true identity.
‘You are from Akhmin,’ I repeated. ‘For all I know you may well be related to God’s Father Ay, close friend of Pharaoh. So why do you come wandering into the City of the Aten as if you know no one? Why do you have to cultivate my lieutenant Djarka? Gain an entry to the palace when God’s Father Ay could have achieved that with a nod of his head?’
‘You are mistaken,’ Makhre flustered. ‘My lord Mahu, you are truly mistaken. I do not know God’s Father Ay. I have seen him from afar. I …’
‘You are a liar! You do not speak with true voice because you do not know the truth.’
‘Mahu!’ Djarka warned.
‘I have watched this house myself. Late at night I have seen God’s Father Ay slip in and out. So, why are you here, Makhre and Nekmet? Whom are you hunting? Me? Djarka? Or the Divine One himself?’
Nekmet picked up a slice of pomegranate. She chewed on it carefully, using this to glance sideways at her father.
‘You call yourself the Sekhmets,’ I continued. ‘A family of assassins. You come from Akhmin. You work for one person only, the lord Ay. Years ago, Makhre, it was you and your wife, but she died. Now it’s you and your beautiful daughter. You slaughtered certain people in Thebes just before the Divine One left that city. You advertised your slayings so people thought that it was business rivals or enemies settling grudges. However, all your victims in Thebes had one thing in common: they were enemies of Ay. The same is true of your other prey in the cities along the Nile.’
Some of what I said was true, the rest mere conjecture.
‘You were brought here by lord Ay,’ I continued. ‘We are not your victims but, through us, particularly Djarka, you have gained admission to the palace.’
‘But we’ve been there,’ Nekmet protested. ‘We did no harm!’
‘Of course not.’ I pushed the wine-cup away. ‘A true assassin must first get himself accepted, become part of the normal life, the regular routine. Moreover, there is no hurry. Whoever your victim was, you were not to strike until lord Ay gave you the order.’
‘But do you have proof?’ Makhre had recovered his wits.
‘Don’t sit there and fence with me as if we are children with sticks,’ I snarled. ‘I’ll have this house searched; I am sure I will find what I have to.’
‘And where are your police?’ Nekmet asked.
‘You know full well,’ I retorted, ‘no one else knows. The Divine One thinks the Sekhmets have been apprehended and executed. However, if he discovered the true assassins were patronised, given access to the palace by his own Lieutenant of Police, Djarka would also feel his wrath.’
‘Let us go to see the lord Ay,’ Makhre offered.
‘He’ll deny it,’ I replied. ‘He’ll call me mad or insane, but the damage will be done. He’ll arrange for you to disappear and Djarka will continue to live under the shadow of suspicion.’
‘I really think …’ Makhre pushed the table back. As he made to get up, he flexed his upper arm, so when he struck, I was waiting. The knife secretly clutched in his hand aimed for my throat even as Nekmet lunged at Djarka with a dagger she, too, had concealed. Djarka was faster than I, pushing the table into Nekmet’s stomach, even as Makhre’s knife skimmed the side of my neck. I lunged back with my own knife, cutting and slashing into his exposed throat, dragging the knife round and slicing through the soft part under his chin. He fell back against the cushions, a look of surprise on his face; blood pumping out of his mouth and the jagged gash in his neck. He was shaking like a man with a fever, a hideous sound coming from his lips.
I looked to my right. Djarka had his arm around the back of Nekmet’s head, pushing her even further onto the dagger thrust into her upper belly; her lips were half-open, eyelids fluttering as if she wanted to speak or kiss him. Djarka’s face was a hide
ous mask, a look of deep pity yet he would not let go of her head or the knife, his eyes only a few inches from hers. Eventually her face went slack, shoulders drooping. Makhre, too, fell quiet, face to one side, his entire chest and groin sopping with blood. I pulled Djarka away, allowing Nekmet’s corpse to fall against the cushions. Then I refilled his cup and my own. While I sat and drank, Djarka sobbed into his hands, one of the most heartwrenching scenes I have ever witnessed. He must have sat for an hour, those two corpses staring at us with their empty, glassy gaze. Birds swooped over the house, the night came, dark and soft as velvet. I kept sipping at the cup. At last Djarka wiped his tears away.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he accused.
In the light of the oil lamps my young friend had aged. His face had lost that olive smoothness, his eyes were red-rimmed; furrows marked either side of his mouth. He had the look of a stricken old man.
‘If I had told you, Djarka, you would not have believed me. I know you. You would have challenged Nekmet. They would have either killed you, lied or fled.’
‘Why?’ Djarka asked. ‘Why did she lie?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll kill Ay,’ Djarka threatened.
‘No, you won’t.’ I clambered to my feet, my legs tense and hard. ‘Come on, Djarka, we have work to do.’
At first I thought he would refuse but Djarka became impatient to discover more evidence, hoping to prove that I was wrong. Yet he knew the truth. Even as he searched he conceded that Makhre and Nekmet had confessed their own guilt.
‘They would have killed us,’ I declared, ‘and taken our corpses out to the Red Lands.’
We searched that house from cellar to the roof. At first we found nothing except indications that Makhre and his daughter had travelled the length and breadth of the kingdom. They possessed considerable wealth. I went down to the cellar, specially constructed to store wine and other goods which had to be kept cool. The cellar was partitioned by a plaster wall. I examined this carefully, removing the makeshift door. I studied the lintels.