‘And the blood?’ I asked.
‘Part of the seizure,’ Pentju explained. ‘A vessel may have burst.’
‘How did this happen?’ Horemheb demanded.
Shishnak coughed. ‘Both the Crown Prince and his brother had gone into the Holy Place to pray before the naos. For some unknown reason, Tuthmosis came back here. He left the door ajar. I had heard that he had left and came down to see what had happened. Crown Prince Tuthmosis was lying on the floor; he was trembling, blood dripped from his mouth. He complained of pains in his chest and stomach, of violent headaches, weakness in his limbs. I helped him to the bed. The physicians were called, but they could do nothing.’
‘Don’t you think you should have alerted the Divine One?’ Horemheb asked, playing the role of the outraged officer. ‘Sent messages to his mother?’
‘Of course, of course,’ Shishnak apologised, the fear obvious in his eyes, ‘but matters were complicated. I sent a priest to alert his brother but the Prince hid behind the naos, screaming insults, saying we had murdered his brother and that we intended to kill him. I went to reason with him but he was hysterical. He picked up incense pots, flower baskets, even a figurine and hurled them at us. The platters of food we had laid before the shrine were also thrown. I thought it best if we placated him, persuaded him to withdraw before we alerted the Great House. I will see to the corpse,’ he continued hurriedly. ‘He will be transported with every honour to the House of Death.’
‘The dead do not concern me,’ Horemheb said, walking to the door.
‘My Lord Shishnak,’ I intervened, ‘where is my master’s chamber?’
‘Across the passageway,’ the High Priest replied.
I walked out, Horemheb following me. The door to Akhenaten’s room was unlocked. It turned out to be a chamber very similar to that of Tuthmosis. The bed was undisturbed, shrouded in its gauze-like sheets. Candles and oil glowed, a small capped brazier sparkled in the corner.
‘I must see my master,’ I declared.
‘You cannot go in there.’ Shishnak’s old arrogance asserted itself. ‘You are not purified.’
A stoup of holy water rested in a niche in the chamber wall. I took off my sandals, went across and bathed my hands, face and feet with the salt-laced water; it stung my eyes and a small cut on my face. I shook myself dry, using the edge of my robe.
‘Now I am purified.’
‘But you can’t.’
Horemheb drew his sword.
‘What other way is there to convince the Prince?’ I hissed, my voice echoing along the cavernous passageway. ‘I am his servant — he will trust me.’
Shishnak closed his eyes, fighting with himself.
‘It’s the only way,’ Horemheb repeated.
Shishnak opened his eyes, then, grasping me by the arm and telling Horemheb to stay, he led me back into the Hall of Columns. Two acolytes escorted us through the gloomy hall past statues and carvings, shrines and chapels to the great gold-plated doors of the Holy of Holies which shimmered in the light of torches held by the officers gathered there. One of the acolytes whispered instructions. The doors opened. I ignored the exclamations and cries of the guards and priests clustered behind me and strode straight into that cold, empty tomb of a room. The great tabernacle stood on its stone daïs, the open doors displaying the gold-plated figure of Amun, the Silent One, the God Who-Watches-All. Before it were small slabs of stone on which the offerings and flower baskets were placed: these had been violently disturbed. The floor was strewn with gold plate, goblets and jugs, slabs of meat, loaves of bread, fruit of every kind. I walked slowly, almost slipping as my foot crushed a bunch of juicy grapes. The air reeked with sweet and sour smells of natron, incense, cassia and the cloying smell of myrrh. A haunted place of shifting shadows. One of these moved from behind a pillar. My master entered the ring of torchlight, his robes stained, cut and torn, but he had regained his composure.
‘Mahu. It’s good to see you.’
I stretched out my hands. ‘Master, we are to escort you home. You are safe.’
Akhenaten strode towards me, his cane rapping the ground.
He kicked aside platters and grasped my hand. ‘Mahu, let us go. Let’s leave this abode of demons.’
‘Rouse yourself, turn yourself over, O King!’
(Utterance 664: Pyramid Text)
Chapter 12
Meryre’s sonorous voice carried the hymn throughout the chamber. Dressed in white drapery, he acted the role of lector priest before the Royal Circle in the great Council Chamber next to the Banqueting Hall at the heart of the Malkata Palace. I was there, forced to listen to his nonsense. I kept my face straight as I tried not to recall Meryre, arse naked, being chased like a squirrel by the rest of the children of the Kap across the marshy shallows of the Nile.
It was supposed to be a sacred occasion. Akhenaten sat on a daïs shaped like a shrine with a stucco pillar on either side painted blue and green with golden ivy clinging to it. The top of these columns were blood-red acanthus leaves, their base yellow palm fronds rimmed with silver. Along the top of the daïs was a serried row of cobras, gilded green-gold and black with sparkling angry ruby eyes, glaring threateningly out at us. The rest of the chamber was painted a cobalt blue, the Magnificent One’s favourite colour, except for the pillars, carved in the shape of thick papyrus stems, which glowed a vibrant green and yellow.
The stone floor of light blue was smooth and polished as water. At either end of the chamber, rectangular Pools of Purity edged with red tiles glistened in the glow of oil lamps. On the surface of these pools floated blue and white lotus, their sweetness mingling with the sponges soaked in perfume placed in pots in shadowy corners and niches. The windows were unshuttered and, like the doors, their lintels were of precious wood, lapis lazuli and glittering stones. Outside stretched the gardens, the paradise of the palace, lush and verdant. From where I stood behind my master, I could hear the braying and bleating of the sacred flocks.
Akhenaten was dressed in state costume: short drawers of pleated gauze ornamented at the back with a jackal’s tail and, in the front, a stiffened apron of gold and coloured enamel; a large robe of the purest linen draped his shoulders. On his feet were peaked sandals and over his head a beautiful cloth of gold striped white and red. A pectoral of the purest jewels carved in the shape of the Vulture Goddess Nekhbet hung round his neck, rings of office decorated his fingers and in his hand was a golden ankh, the sign of life. I had watched his face being painted and embellished before the Royal Circle met; the dark kohl rings round his eyes contrasted with the flesh-coloured paint on his face and his carmine-daubed lips. Across the Royal Circle sat Hotep in his white robes and gleaming chains of office. The Magnificent One’s close friend and First Minister kept his face impassive though when he stared at me, cynical amusement glinted in his eyes. Great Queen Tiye sat on Akhenaten’s right, Nefertiti on his left, her abdomen now bulging out, straining against the loose thin robe. Ay, holder of the Divine seal, sat next to her.
Everyone was lost in their own thoughts as Meryre’s voice rose and fell. In the ninety days following Tuthmosis’ death, matters had moved as swiftly as a swallow racing against the sky. The Divine One, stricken by the death of his firstborn, had sunk deeper into a stupor of drugged pleasure, or so Ay had informed me. Great Queen Tiye had also aged: grey-faced, shoulders slightly stooped even though her beloved son had now not only been recognised by the Palace but proclaimed as the Magnificent One’s Co-regent, joint ruler, Beloved of Amun, Horus in the South.