by Paul Doherty
This great change was publicised by processions, Akhenaten and Nefertiti in their gorgeously decorated chariot, harness gleaming, ostrich plumes dancing, clouds of incense billowing about. They were escorted by the nobles in their multi-coloured robes and exotic sandals, guarded by soldiers armed with shields, spears, battle-axes and bows. It was all a dream. He and Nefertiti, dressed alike in war-kilt, jackal tail and the blue War Crown of Egypt, sacrificed white bulls with garlands round their necks. Nothing but show. They stood at the Window of Appearances in beautiful robes bound by red sashes and presented necklaces and gifts to the clash of cymbals. It was all an illusion. Akhenaten was more like a wooden idol from one of the temples he despised, brought out for public display. The real power lay in the hands of Ay and Nefertiti who now rejoiced in her new throne name of Smenkhkare.
They both worked feverishly to restore the damage done. Writs, proclamations, declarations and public promises streamed from the palace. The double doors of the Great House were thrown open to petitioners and supplicants from every city in Egypt but Smenkhkare’s cartouche appeared on the bottom of these documents. ‘Smenkhkare’ assumed the full regalia of the Empire. It was she who sat in grandeur and glory speaking with true voice and issuing writs whilst Meritaten appeared as her escort. So developed was the illusion that Nefertiti became more and more like a man, her daughter assuming the role of Queen.
Djarka and I were kept busy as if we were being deliberately distracted from the affairs of the Empire by the conditions of the city. We were instructed to search out wrongdoers, apprehend thieves, pursue robbers into the Red Lands. Only twice did I meet Nefertiti in her new role and she was as cold and hard as the flesh of a dead man. The last time was in the Great Writing Office where she dismissed her scribes. Only her Captain of Mercenaries remained, a Canaanite called Manetho, a grizzled, scarred man with a bushy moustache and beard who followed her every movement with all the blind affection and loyalty of a dog. Nefertiti-Smenkhkare had summoned me to deliver a lecture about the need for greater law and order at night in the city streets. She even hinted at my possible removal and sat in the high-backed chair like a judge delivering his verdict on a guilty man. She was still beautiful though her body was corpulent, her face fatter, the cheeks not so smooth, the mouth rather droopy, but her blue eyes still blazed with light and life. She dismissed me as if I was a dog.
The end came not in some dramatic form. Another summons to the palace, this time in the presence of Ay. Nefertiti-Smenkhkare sat on her throne at the far end of the Great Room with Meritaten on a stool on her right and Ankhespaaten on her left. Manetho, armed and helmeted, stood behind the throne. As I swept up towards her, I noticed members of Manetho’s corps standing in the alcoves, the oil lamps glittering in the reflection of their drawn swords. The room was as beautiful as ever, perfume-filled with baskets of flowers, well-lit, but there was no hiding the air of menace, of silent threat. We knelt on the cushions on the floor and made obeisance. Meryre standing in the shadows ordered us to sit back and we did so. Ay was relaxed, he knew exactly what was about to happen. Like a master of music, he was directing every movement. From another room in the palace I heard the strains of singing as the royal choir rehearsed. For a moment I thought this was Akhenaten’s Orchestra of the Sun but most of these had died during the great pestilence; their music would be heard no more.
‘You are pleased to look upon my face, Mahu?’
‘The light of your face, O Divine One,’ I spoke the ritual, ‘refreshes my limbs and gladdens my heart. I bask in the joy of your favour and seek your protection.’
‘Then know this, Mahu, son of Seostris. Proclamations are to be issued in my name only for I am Pharaoh, Lord of the Two Lands, Smenkhkare-Ankhkeperure.’ Nefertiti stared coldly, waiting for my response.
‘The Divine One?’ I asked.
‘Beloved Pharaoh Akhenaten-Waenre is no more.’
‘He has died, Your Majesty?’
‘He lives still,’ came the reply. ‘He has journeyed back to his Father. He and his Father are now one.’
My heart teemed with questions. I opened my mouth to speak but Ay’s soft cough and Nefertiti’s look of implacable majesty kept me silent. Nefertiti then proceeded, under her new name and titles, to issue edicts of how the news was to be announced in the city as well as be carried to every corner of the Empire. After that I was dismissed. Of course I questioned Ay. I demanded the truth, to see the corpse. ‘What preparations have been made for his burial?’ I asked. ‘In which tomb will he be buried?’ Ay shrugged and fended these questions off.
‘The tombs in the eastern cliffs,’ he declared, ‘are full of coffins and sarcophagi, the work of the plague.’
I sat in that small antechamber as the full realisation of what Nefertiti had said dawned on me. Memories came flooding back. The Veiled One in his pavilion or walking with me in the gardens, discussing his vision, chattering about this and that. Now he was gone, his death dismissed as if he was some peasant, some person of low repute. Ay, apart from his casual remark about the tombs on the eastern cliffs, sat in a chair watching me intently.
‘I know why I am here.’ I wafted away a buzzing fly.
‘Why are you here, Mahu?’
‘You are using me, as you would a measure, to test gold or silver.’
‘What do you mean?’ He narrowed his eyes.
‘Do you think, God’s Father Ay,’ I retorted, ‘that’s how it will end? Akhenaten is dead. Long live Smenkhkare who is not really Smenkhkare but your daughter Nefertiti? Do you really believe people will accept this? That Great Pharaoh has gone but no one knows where?’
‘But nobody does.’ He pressed his fingers against my lips. ‘Mahu, I speak with true voice. Three weeks ago, the Divine One, Akhenaten, simply disappeared.’
‘You mean he was murdered?’
Something in Ay’s face made me regret the question. A passing look, a rare one of genuine hurt.
‘Mahu, he disappeared! He was in his quarters and then the next morning, when the servants entered his bedchamber’ – Ay spread his hands – ‘it was empty. Immediately we began a search of the palace grounds and the city.’
His words struck a chord in my memory. How Djarka had reported just under a month ago about mercenaries from Manetho’s corps searching the city, of chariot squadrons being despatched into the Red Lands. At the time I thought it was some military matter, a reflection of Ay and Nefertiti’s desire for security.
‘But where? How? Why?’ I demanded.
‘I don’t know, Mahu. Akhenaten had become a recluse; more and more he demanded to be by himself. On occasion he would request a chariot, and horses from the stable to be harnessed, then he’d drive out to his tomb, and on into the Red Lands. He would go garbed like a common courtier or petty official, his face and head concealed in a hood. Sometimes he even wore a veil over his face as he used to when he was a boy.’
I recalled Akhenaten’s drunken babbling. How he longed for the old days, the seclusion and purity of his youth.
‘The people will demand to see his corpse and, if they don’t, Horemheb, Rameses and the rest will.’
‘They shall be told what you are being told,’ Ay replied. ‘Akhenaten did not believe in the Osirian rite. We will say, and it is the truth, that body and soul, Akhenaten has gone back to his Father. He is no longer with us except in spirit.’
‘And what happens if he reappears? What happens, God’s Father Ay, if our great Pharaoh re-emerges from the Red Lands, purified and more determined than ever?’
Ay shook his head. ‘He is past all that.’
‘Did he ever hint,’ I demanded, ‘ever make reference to this?’
‘He was morose and withdrawn.’ Ay shrugged. ‘My daughter, myself, Meryre and Tutu will take the most solemn oaths. We know nothing. We have searched.’
‘What do you think truly happened?’ I asked.
‘Shall I tell you, Mahu?’ Ay pushed the stool closer till his face was almost touching mi
ne. ‘Akhenaten became tired and disillusioned. He either went out to the Red Lands to die or to be alone. He may have been killed. He may have died or he may be living in some cave like those wandering holy men who speak to no one but the spirits of the desert, the wind and the sky. Whatever, Mahu, the decision has been made: he cannot, shall not return.’
‘Shall not?’ I queried. ‘Do you have a hand in this, God’s Father Ay?’
‘No, Mahu, but I do have a hand in the saving of Egypt. In putting matters straight, in returning to the old ways. That is my concern, your concern, our concern. No more dreams! No more visions! No new cities or new gods. At the end of this year, perhaps in the spring of next, we shall move back to Thebes where Huy and Maya are preparing for the resurrection of Egypt. Horemheb and Rameses do likewise in Memphis. I ask you one question, Mahu, and one question only. Are you with us? For those who are not with us shall be considered against.’
‘How many people will learn about this?’ I asked.
‘The children of the Kap, no one else.’
‘Apart from you and your daughter?’
‘You have not answered my question, Mahu. Are you with us or are you against us?’ Ay held out his hand, I had no choice but to grasp it.
I made my way home and asked Djarka to accompany me out into the garden pavilion where Ay’s spies and informers would find it difficult to listen and pry. I told him what had happened.
‘Is he dead?’ Djarka asked the same question I had earlier.
‘He could be. He could have been murdered or taken out into the Red Lands and left to wander.’
‘I will ask my people the Sheshnu to make enquiries. It is possible, my Lord Mahu,’ Djarka often used my official title when discussing matters of state, ‘that it is all finished. I have also received visitors from the palace.’ He smiled thinly. ‘We have been instructed to deface any memorial or tomb bearing the inscription of the Lady Khiya. It is to be finished by the end of the month. Anyway, what do you really think?’ he urged. ‘Is it possible that Akhenaten became tired, exhausted?’
I closed my eyes and recalled that young man living so frugally many years ago. I was about to reply when one of our officers burst in.
‘Master, you have a visitor: a man and a young boy.’
Pentju pushed the fellow aside and came into the room. Beside him walked a young lad of about five summers. He was about medium height, his strange, long, egg-shaped head completely shaved except for the side lock falling down over his left ear. He had dark lustrous eyes in a pointed smooth face, generous but small lips. He looked slender in a white robe which covered him from neck to ankle, stout leather sandals on his feet.
‘You know who he is?’ Pentju demanded.
I told the officer to close the door and guard it. Then I took the little fellow and lifted him up. He didn’t even blink but stared solemnly, scrutinising me carefully. I kissed him on each cheek and put him down. Immediately his little hand went into mine.
‘Khiya’s son,’ Djarka whispered, ‘the Prince Tutankhaten.’ I knelt on the floor and made obeisance. Djarka did likewise.
‘You must not do that.’ The boy’s soft hand tapped my head. ‘You must not do that,’ he repeated childishly, head to one side, gazing at me. ‘He told me.’ He pointed at Pentju. ‘No one must do that for a while.’
I poured Pentju a goblet of wine and asked the boy if he wanted anything to eat or drink. The Prince shook his head.
He sat like a little old man on the stool Djarka brought, gazing at us with all the solemnity of a baby owl. He had the look of Akhenaten, certainly the eyes and lips, but his posture and gentleness reminded me of Khiya.
‘Why have you brought him here, Pentju?’
The physician handed over a small carved hippopotamus wrapped in thickened papyrus. ‘Every week,’ Pentju declared, ‘except during the plague, Akhenaten sent his son a present, a small carving, a scarab, an amulet or a ring wrapped in a piece of papyrus.’
I turned the parchment over. On the outside were the words Enk Hetep, which meant ‘I am content’. On the other side, the words to kiss, with the hieroglyphics: an arrow above a head looking downwards at rippled water. ‘Akhenaten made me promise,’ Pentju explained, ‘that I would receive such a gift on the second day of every week. On the outside the words, I am content, on the inside the words to kiss with the hieroglyphics. If I did not receive such a present for three weeks in succession, I was to conclude that he was no longer with us and that his only son was in danger. I was then to open the sealed document he had given me. It is over three weeks since I received this last present. This morning I broke the seal. The instructions were very simple. I was to bring the Prince to you and hand him over to your care.’
I stared at the little boy and felt a deep sadness, bittersweet because, despite what had happened, Akhenaten had, in the end, trusted me more than anyone else. I told Djarka and Pentju to stay while I returned to the house and retrieved the sealed document Akhenaten had given to me. I broke the three seals and unrolled it. The words scrawled under the crudely drawn hieroglyphs caught at my heart.
‘Haynekah Ahitfe: hail to you greater than his father. Mem sen-jay: do not worry. Ra mem pet: the Sun is in the sky. Heket Nebet Nefert, Mahu: all good things to Mahu. Then underneath all this, in a more common hand: Do what you have to, to protect my son. Senb ti: goodbye.’
I destroyed the manuscript and returned to the garden pavilion. I now knew the full reasons Ay had taken me to the palace that day: he not only wanted to test me but guessed that I was one of the few whom Akhenaten would trust with his baby son. Ay wanted to keep me close. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it.
‘Pentju, you know what has happened?’
‘Nothing, except what Djarka has told me.’
‘The mercenaries surrounding your house,’ I demanded. ‘Can they be trusted?’
‘They took an oath of loyalty to Pharaoh himself. They have not been released from that oath.’
‘But they can be bribed, killed or removed,’ I replied bitterly. ‘Djarka, Pentju, you must take this little boy immediately out of the City of the Aten. Take him secretly to Thebes and entrust him to the care of Sobeck. Djarka, you know how to find him. Tell Sobeck that as he loves me, if he wishes to repay his debt, he must treat this boy as his own and keep him safe until I or you, Djarka, ask for him again.’ I crouched down and embraced the boy; he smelt of perfume and honey. I kissed his cheeks. ‘Be brave, little one,’ I hissed. ‘Do whatever these men tell you.’
A short while later, armed with provisions and small bags of gold, silver and precious jewels, Pentju and Djarka left through the side streets for the quayside.
Ay arrived later that day, accompanied by his mercenary Captains.
‘I thought you were with us, Mahu?’
‘God’s Father Ay, of course I am.’
‘Then where is the boy?’
‘He is safe.’
Ay peered over my shoulder. ‘Where are Pentju and Djarka?’
‘They are safe too.’
Ay whistled through his teeth. ‘Where is the Prince Tutankhaten?’ he repeated.
The Captain of his mercenaries drew his sword.
‘He is safe,’ I repeated. ‘In the gardens outside, God’s Father Ay, my mercenaries are also waiting in the shade, bows drawn, arrows notched. Come, friend,’ I added mockingly. ‘I am with you as I was when I rescued Prince Akhenaten from the Temple of Amun.’
My visitor blinked, then glanced away.
‘Moreover,’ I whispered, ‘if I die, God’s Father Ay, so will you. Even if you survive you’ll still never discover where the boy is.’
Ay stepped back, waving a finger in my face.
‘Mahu, the cunning Baboon of the South.’ His hand shot forward in a gesture of friendship.
I clasped it, squeezing just as tight.
‘My friend and my ally.’ He smiled and, spinning on his heel, left the house.
I was never asked again, at
least not during that time, the whereabouts of Tutankhaten, Pentju or Djarka. For a few weeks the city was at peace. I was busy collecting my possessions, stowing them away and burning documents. The dance had only just begun. Other children of the Kap visited the City of the Aten. They, too, asked the whereabouts of the Prince and received the same answer. They reminded me of vultures. They arrived, busy men on busy matters, but really they were like desert hyenas picking at a corpse. They were openly astonished by the apparent disappearance of Akhenaten but Rameses’ cynical words summed up the mood of them all: ‘He is gone and the gods be thanked! If he returns, we’ll send him straight back.’
On one thing they were all agreed. ‘Nefertiti will never be accepted. She can call herself what she likes,’ Horemheb snarled over a goblet of wine. ‘Smenkhkare-Ankhkeperure! She can proclaim herself to be the Divine Daughter, or even the Son of Horus, but she does not have the Tuthmosid blood in her veins. She is not of the royal line. She and Akhenaten are twin symptoms of the same disease. The army I command will tolerate her for a while and whatever sweet noises she makes to them or the great ones of Thebes but, in the end, she must step down.’
Ay accepted this with equanimity or, at least, appeared to do so. In the first month of the summer season he brought messages to us all, the children of the Kap, that an important meeting of the Royal Circle had been called in the Great Palace of the Aten. He made it clear that all were expected to attend.
I offered my house to Horemheb, Rameses, Maya and Huy, and organised my cooks to prepare a sumptuous meal. I did this at the request of Ay whom I called ‘my guest of honour’. The chefs surpassed themselves, but the meal was eaten in silence. We were all apprehensive of what would happen the next day. Horemheb and Rameses had brought their own retinues, encamped down near the quayside, whilst Maya and Huy had been accompanied on their river journey by two bargeloads of mercenaries. Ay arrived late, face unshaven, dressed in simple robes covered by a dark cloak. I heard the clink of armour as his mercenaries camped outside in the garden. The Viper, all agitated, refused the garland of honour but asked me to shutter the windows and close the doors. We gathered round him. For a while Ay just sat on the cushions, face in his hands and, when he took his fingers away, his cheeks were wet with tears.