by Paul Doherty
‘They have all gone, Mahu.’
‘Who have, Your Majesty?’
Akhenaten’s eyes were vague, his mouth slack, lips wet with wine. He slurped from the wine-bowl again.
‘The spirit is gone. My Father has hidden his face. So many dead.’ He put the wine-cup down, hands going out to caress the swollen stomachs of his daughters.
‘The Beautiful One has gone but my seed still fertilises. I will people the earth with my own seed but they still bother me, Ay and the rest. Reports about this, reports about that.’ He blinked. ‘I thought you had gone, Mahu. I thought you were dead.’
‘I was ill, Your Majesty.’
‘How beautiful,’ Akhenaten chanted, sitting back on his throne. ‘How beautiful are your rays.’ He blew his nose on his fingers and stamped his foot.
‘What do you advise, Baboon of the South?’
‘Advise, Your Majesty? Why, clear the streets. Have them and the gardens purified. Order the merchants back. Open the markets, show your face.’
‘And?’
‘Bring back your true Queen.’
‘Oh, she’s back.’ Akhenaten swayed drunkenly and tapped the side of his head. ‘She is still here.’
‘My father will rule.’ Ankhespaaten spoke up fiercely, her eyes bright with anger. ‘Our line, this seed, his glory will carry us forward to new times.’
For a moment, though her hair was black as night, her kohl-ringed eyes dark pools, the soul of Nefertiti glowed in that girl-woman, impregnated by her own father. She was ruthlessly determined to defend his and her own interests.
‘Your son, Your Majesty?’
I ignored Ankhespaaten’s hiss of disapproval as she stared like an angry cat, painted nails beating a tattoo on the back of her father’s throne. ‘He is safe!’ Akhenaten shook his head. ‘Baboon …’
‘Bring back your Great Wife.’
‘I will think of that, Mahu, but now you have got to go. My seed,’ he pointed down to his groin, ‘my seed wants out.’
I rose.
‘I didn’t tell you to go now.’
I slumped back on the cushions.
‘I’ll summon the Royal Circle,’ Akhenaten slurred. ‘I’ll summon it, but let Ay preside until I decide what to do with his head. No, no, no.’ Akhenaten was talking to himself. ‘His head is safe. I need him. Meryre will watch him.’ He put his face in his hands and sobbed. ‘I’ll tell them all to come back.’ His words were muffled. He raised a tear-stained face. ‘I wish I could go back, Baboon of the South. I wish I could return to that grove with the rising sun washing my face.’ He shook his head. ‘It was not fair. I had no choice. Don’t you realise that, Mahu? I had no choice.’
‘When, Your Majesty?’
‘In the Temple of Amun.’
‘Your Majesty?’
‘I had no choice. I knew the wine was poisoned. I baited my brother Tuthmosis and he left. I asked him to wait in my chamber, so I could tell him a great secret about our mother. You see, Mahu, I knew the wine was poisoned. I … I …’ He stumbled on his words.
I glanced at Meritaten. She still stood head down but Ankhespaaten knew what her father was saying.
‘I’d been back to my chamber, Mahu. I had seen the poisoned wine in the jug, the cup next to it.’
‘Your Majesty.’ I breathed hard, trying to hide a quiver of fear. My heart was in my throat. I found it difficult to speak. Akhenaten was leaning forward like a penitent confessing his sins to a priest.
‘Ay and Nefertiti told me the wine would be poisoned. I was not to drink or eat anything. I felt so faint but they told me how it would happen and they were right.’
The memories flooded back. Ay reflecting on what to do. Shishnak protesting his innocence until the pain made him confess. Hotep grinning at me in that garden, brazenly misleading me just before he died. Now I realised the traps he had hidden away. Hotep hadn’t wanted to alert me. He wished to keep me close to Ay and Nefertiti, a willing tool for their ambitions. And who else had Hotep used? Pentju! He had not only been motivated by revenge, he must have been in Hotep’s pay from the start. As had Khiya. She had visited the Magnificent One in his House of Love not just to receive the juice of the poppy but to report all she had learned. Hotep had been the one who had brought her there. Hotep had quietly plotted his revenge even before he fell from power.
Hotep and Ay, two cobras circling each other, plotting for the future. Had Hotep also encouraged the Magnificent One to enjoy little Khiya, a subtle revenge on his grotesque son? Had Hotep told Khiya to accept her lonely status, the patronising jibes of Nefertiti and await her chance? Only then, years later, did I see the fruits of Hotep’s wily brain. He must have realised that one day, Akhenaten would turn on Nefertiti. Khiya and Pentju were his weapons. Ay, the supreme plotter, could do little to check Hotep except to push ahead his own plans, speeding like a runner to the finish: the murder of Tuthmosis and the advancement of Akhenaten. I could understand Khiya being suborned by Hotep – but Pentju? Then I recalled his infatuation with the Lady Tenbra, a noblewoman, who, in truth, would hardly look at a mere physician. Hotep, of course, would have smoothed Pentju’s path. And that poison which had killed Tuthmosis? It was not the work of Shishnak and the priests of Amun but the Akhmin gang. Of course, Ay and Nefertiti would have their spies amongst the priests of Amun. It would be so easy to arrange for a jug of poisoned wine to be left in a chamber and Akhenaten instructed not to eat or drink anything. I glanced at my master’s bleary face. Had he been fully aware of the plot against his own brother? Other thoughts came tumbling back. The invitation to the Temple of Amun: had that been Shishnak’s work or a sly suggestion by Ay through his placement in the priestly hierarchy at Karnak? An ambitious gamble, so subtle, the priests of Karnak took the blame.
‘My Lord Mahu?’
I broke from my reverie. Ankhespaaten was leaning forward.
‘What you have heard is sacred and secret. My father trusts his Baboon of the South.’
‘And you, my lady?’
‘What my father wants is my desire.’
I glanced at Meritaten. She was smiling shyly at me, her beautiful face so vacuous I wondered about her wits.
‘Mahu?’ Akhenaten was holding a sealed scroll in his hands, which he must have concealed in the cushions of the throne. He thrust this at me.
‘If anything happens to me …’
‘Your Majesty, nothing will.’
‘When I go back to my Father,’ Akhenaten’s voice was now firm, ‘open that scroll. As you can see, it is sealed three times. Promise me, Mahu’ – tears filled his eyes – ‘for what we have, for the friendship we had, you will keep it safe? Swear now!’
I raised my hand and spoke the oath. He handed it over.
‘Go, Mahu, my friend.’
I left and as I did so, Akhenaten and his two daughters, their voices sounding hollow, began to recite a spell from The Book of the Dead.
‘I abhor the eastern land.
I will not enter the place of destruction.
None shall bring offering of what the gods protect …’
By the second month of the season of Peret, in the fifteenth year of Akhenaten’s reign, the pestilence had completely disappeared. The City of the Aten returned to some form of normality, but its heart, once strong, now beat faintly. Akhenaten showed himself escorted by his two daughters, who rejoiced in the title of Queen. They had given birth to daughters – each had been given their own name with the suffix ‘Tasheit’ – but neither child had survived the first month of their life. People whispered that it was a judgement from the gods. Nefertiti still remained a recluse, all access to her denied.
The city was now administered by a small council of Devouts which included Ay and, on occasion, General Horemheb. Ay had passed unscathed through the pestilence. We exchanged pleasantries but I kept my own counsel. Ay was an ally but no longer a friend. I concealed the scroll Akhenaten had given me. For days after my audience with him I reflected on what I had lear
ned. There was no dream or vision of the Aten. Perhaps Queen Tiye had been pure in her thoughts but I was in a nest of writhing cobras. The struggle was about power and glory and, for what it was worth, I was part of it.
At the end of that summer the Royal Circle was solemnly convened. Everyone was present, even Pentju, aloof and quiet, as if he knew his part but did not really care. The rest had continued to prosper, advancing their careers, creating spheres of influence, building up factions and forging alliances. Horemheb was a leading General in the army command, Rameses his Lieutenant. Huy was master of all affairs beyond Egypt’s borders. Maya knew every measure of gold and silver, or the lack of it, from the treasuries of Egypt. Meryre, lost in his fool’s paradise, still dreamed of being High Priest of a religion which would stretch from the Euphrates to beyond the Third Cataract. Ay was more himself, relaxed and smiling. We all sat as if nothing had happened, yet each quietly plotted for the future. The City of Aten, the reign of the Sun Disc, the idea of the One were all dust. They were impatient to sweep it away and assume the normal business of power: the only obstacle was how?
Ay, however, in a brilliant display of hypocrisy and cant, supported by the children of the Kap, his close allies, deliberately misled Tutu, Meryre and the rest. He painted a picture which even I found convincing. How Akhenaten had returned to his usual vigour. How the city would prosper. How General Horemheb would reorganise the armies and advance Egypt’s standards from one end of the Empire to the other, all under the glowing patronage of the Aten. Tutu, Meryre and the rest drank this in like greedy children.
Afterwards, in the seclusion of his own private garden, Ay convened a second meeting of the children of the Kap, including Pentju. He questioned the physician most closely about the health and wellbeing of the young Prince. Pentju replied truthfully but made it very clear that the young boy was in his care and would only be handed over to those Akhenaten appointed. Ay pursed his lips, pronounced himself satisfied and moved to the other items of business. We sat in the shade sipping Charou wine and quenching our thirst on slices of lemon and pomegranate, whilst we divided an empire.
Following so swiftly after the meeting of the Royal Circle I felt I could have burst out laughing. No one questioned Ay’s decision or the underlying principle that Akhenaten’s reign was coming to an end, his revolution no more exciting than a dried-out riverbed. Huy and Maya gave a pithy blunt description of affairs. How Thebes was seething with unrest. The treasuries were empty whilst beyond Egypt’s borders the allegiance of our allies was growing weaker by the month. Horemheb delivered more ominous news. How the Egyptian army high command at Memphis were on the brink of mutiny: bereft of supplies, weapons and recruits, commanders were unable to despatch any troops across Sinai either to support Egypt’s allies or defend her precious mines and trade routes.
At last the decision was made. Huy and Maya would return to Thebes. They would form their own House of Scribes and secretly plan for the future. Horemheb, supported by Rameses, would be appointed Commander-in-Chief of all Egypt’s forces and take over the garrison at Memphis. Ay urged the need for secrecy but they were all to follow the same path and sing the same hymn. They were to restore confidence, assure the powerful that the old ways would return, that the City of the Aten was merely a stumbling block in the glorious path of Egypt’s true destiny. No one, of course, dared raise, even hint, at what Akhenaten might think or say. Ay already had that under control. Each of my colleagues were given their seals of office, their commissions all bearing the royal cartouche of Akhenaten. Once he had finished, each of us took an oath of loyalty, of common friendship and alliance. Hands were clasped and the children of the Kap went their own way.
A few weeks later I broached the matter of Akhenaten’s state of mind with Ay. I avoided the temptation of confronting him. I believed we shared a common soul, or at least I thought we did. Ay was as dangerous and as cunning as a mongoose. What memories does any hunter hold of what he’s slain? The hunter lives for the moment and plans for the future. Ay had to view me as an ally, not as his conscience. He listened to what I said and brought his fingers to his lips.
‘Very perceptive, Mahu. As always you point your finger at the heart of the problem.’
‘Don’t patronise me, God’s Father,’ I retorted. ‘Huy and Mahu, not to mention Horemheb and Rameses, even Pentju, must be thinking the same. Tutu and Meryre are easy to fool. They still dream and haven’t woken up.’
‘We will see,’ Ay replied. ‘We shall speak to the Divine One and his Co-regent.’
Naturally I reported to Djarka what had happened. Most of it he knew, or at least suspected, but he was intrigued by the reference to a Co-regent. Djarka openly wondered if Ay had managed to worm himself so firmly back into Akhenaten’s affections that he was being raised to the rank and title of Pharaoh.
‘And yet,’ Djarka shook his head, ‘I find that impossible. Nobody would accept him.’
‘What about Crown Prince Tutankhaten?’ I asked.
‘But he’s only a child.’
On the day of audience Ay collected me from my house, making sure that I was dressed in the full ceremonial robes of a courtier. Surrounded by fan-bearers and flunkies and preceded by heralds and musicians, we swept up into the Palace of the Aten. The gateways and corridors, courtyards and gardens were full of Nakhtimin’s men in the full regalia of battle, blue and gold head-dresses, snow-white kilts, spears and shields at the ready. At the door to the Throne Room a host of chamberlains and office-holders milled about. Trumpets blared. Gongs sounded. Gusts of incense perfumed the air. Meryre, dressed in his exquisite robes, escorted us into the imperial presence. The Throne Room had been changed. A raised daïs covered in gold-leaf now held two resplendent thrones. I could only stand and gape. Ankhesenamun and Meritaten were sitting at the edge of the daïs on small cushioned chairs. Akhenaten wore the Double Crown of Egypt, a cloth of gold round his shoulders, the Nekhbet pectoral shimmering brilliantly against his chest, and a brilliant white kilt falling down to his ankles. Beside him was a resplendent figure. I gasped in astonishment. This person too wore the full regalia of Pharaoh, grasping the flail and the rod, but the face was that of Great Queen Nefertiti. Her glorious hair had been shaven, her eyebrows plucked, her face carefully painted like that of her husband. At first glance she seemed not to have aged a day but, as I drew closer, I glimpsed the stoop of her shoulders, the podgy arms and fat hands, the cheeks slightly sagging, the lines round the mouth which even the paint could not disguise. Ay, quietly revelling in my surprise, knelt on the cushions and made obeisance. I did likewise, my forehead touching the ground. We received no command to rise. Akhenaten’s voice boomed out.
‘Now let it be known to the Kingdom of the Two Lands. Let my words be carried beyond the Third Cataract that I, in my wisdom, under the guidance of my Father, have decreed that my Great Wife and Great Queen Nefernefruaten-Nefertiti is now my co-ruler, assuming the name of Ankheperure-Smenkhkare-Nefernefruaten. Let it be known that her imperial seal carries the will of God; the voice of Smenkhkare will be obeyed.’
On and on he went, proclaiming the greatness of Nefertiti under her new name Smenkhkare. Of course I could only kneel and listen, recalling how Egypt had once boasted of its great Queen Pharaohs, such as Hatchesphut, daughter of the great Tuthmosis III. When Akhenaten finished, we were told to kneel back. I gazed on the face which had always haunted my soul. For a moment, those eyes shifted, a slight smile appeared, before the imperial mask returned. Akhenaten then proceeded to issue a series of decrees, each one being repeated but most of them only confirmed what Ay had already decided.
Once they had finished we were ordered to withdraw. Ay led me out into one of the small walled gardens where tables had been prepared with silver dishes and goblets, fruit and wine being served by servants who quickly withdrew.
‘How long have you known this?’ I asked.
‘For a short while,’ Ay grinned.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why has this happened?�
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‘Why, Mahu? Because you yourself pleaded with Akhenaten. Did you not say his Great Queen should be restored? All right,’ he scoffed, ‘I see the cynical smile.’
Ay walked over to the sun pavilion and sat on a cushioned seat indicating I sit next to him.
‘The honest answer is that Akhenaten has come to his senses. Nefertiti is the life-force of his soul. In fact, I go further – she is his Ka, his Ba, the very essence of his being. He bans Nefertiti and what happens? Three of his children die! The children he had by his two daughters do not survive. A great plague has swept through the City of Aten. There are troubles in Thebes and elsewhere. It’s not difficult, Mahu, to make Akhenaten reflect on the reason why the milk has gone sour. Of course,’ he plucked at the embroidered sash round his waist and stared quizzically at a painting on the wall of the pavilion, ‘he does love her, Mahu. He has missed her sweet breath, her gracious smile.’
‘And now all will be well again!’ I retorted. ‘The lotus will bloom, the papyrus will grow, the sun will shine, the rains will come and all will be well in paradise.’
‘Something like that.’ Ay glanced out of the corner of his eye. ‘But you don’t believe it, do you, Mahu?’
I didn’t reply but rose, bowed and left. The last days had begun. Akhenaten and Nefertiti could smile and coo. Pharaoh might send presents with the word ‘forever’ written in hieroglyphics on a piece of papyrus: a cobra, a bread loaf and a strip of land, but the bread was stale, the land was as hard and the cobra was dangerous. I suspected Akhenaten was now drugged and drunk, soft clay in the hands of Ay who portrayed himself as his saviour. That mongoose of a man was now playing the most dangerous of games, a fervent Atenist who secretly plotted the return of the old ways. Or was it the other way round? I could never really decide what was the truth.