Of course neither Nefertiti nor Akhenaten had forgotten Shishnak, the High Priest; their support for the Aten was growing more visible. The Chapel of the Aten continued to be built at Karnak and both Akhenaten and Nefertiti often visited it, parading majestically past the shaven heads, stopping to comment how inscriptions to the Aten could be inscribed on that doorway, this pillar, that wall or pylon. It was all a mockery. Akhenaten had his own sun altar within his palace grounds. He also went out into the Western Red Lands to a place called the Valley of the Shadows in order to worship his god. Sometimes I accompanied him there. I always felt uneasy, as if what was about to happen there somehow stretched back from the future to touch my soul and warn my heart. The valley itself was narrow and sombre, steep-sided, its flank strewn with boulders, rough gorse, brambles and shifting shale. It had only one entrance, a narrow pass which fell steeply down to a snake-like track which curved and twisted, ending in an impasse of sheer rocks over which the Sun Disc would rise.
I always considered the valley to be a haunt of ghosts with its many caves and hollows on either side. Akhenaten saw it as a sacred place. He built a small altar at the far end, at the foot of the sheer cliffs, in order to sacrifice bread and wine to the Aten. He’d go out in his chariot, a few palace guards with Snefru’s retinue trotting behind him. They’d seal the entrance whilst Akhenaten went ahead with myself, Nefertiti, and sometimes Ay, along the floor of the valley to what he called ‘his sanctuary before the Sun Disc’. Such visits were a sinister experience conducted in that ghostly light which separates night from day. The bushes and boulders became skulking monsters or the hiding-place of some secret enemy. I had the entire valley investigated. The Medjay reported how witches and warlocks often met in its caves to practise their midnight rites. I could well believe it. One morning I smelt smoke and later that day I despatched Snefru to investigate and report back with true voice. Snefru confessed he was frightened, not so much by the human remains they had found in one cave, as they must have been years old. He claimed the hidden menace of the valley could be sensed even in the bright light of day. I advised Akhenaten to find a different place. He lost his temper, screaming at me that I was thick-headed and dull-witted. Later he apologised sweetly, saying how was I to know where the veil between him and his god became so thin?
Khiya was never taken on such pilgrimages even though she was deeply curious about her new husband’s religion. She’d often come tripping along the garden path, eyes all innocent in her round pretty face, a litany of questions about the gods and temples of Egypt.
‘Who is Mut?’ she’d ask. ‘What is her relationship with Amun, and is Khonsu their son? Do they rank higher than the Earth God Geb? Is the Sun Disc a god or just a symbol?’
Despite her puzzled looks and open eagerness to learn I was wary of her, yet Khiya stayed close to me, sending me gifts at New Year and on festival days. She always singled Karnak out for fussing as he grew from a mewling pup into a muscular, brown-haired hunting dog with swift legs, a strong jaw and fierce eyes. He followed me everywhere.
Khiya also developed a special fondness for Djarka, ‘my second shadow’ as Snefru jealously described him. Djarka’s added attraction to Khiya was a profound knowledge about herbs and a love of gardens as intense as Nefertiti’s. Khiya and her maid would insist that Djarka lecture them on the names and properties of different flowers and herbs. Khiya remained ever-smiling even though Nefertiti grew more haughty and distant, keen to emphasise her status and rights as Great Queen. Khiya submitted to all this, accepting the snubs, more concerned with her herbs or improving her knowledge of the Egyptian tongue. She was deeply interested in love poetry which she liked to declaim as the Orchestra of the Sun played softly in the background. Nefertiti resented such occasions for then Khiya, who had a beautiful voice, would come into her own. I can still recall certain lines which always charmed my heart.
Sometimes Khiya’s mask slipped and she suffered the consequences. She once showed me angry bruises on her arms and shoulders, results of Nefertiti’s violent outbursts which intensified as her pregnancies advanced. On another occasion Khiya came and sat on a small stool watching me draft a proclamation.
‘What’s that?’ She pointed to the hieroglyphs of waving grass.
‘That’s seket — it stands for field.’
‘And heb?’
‘An alabaster bowl to drink from.’
‘Would you get me something to drink, Mahu?’ She placed soft fingers on my wrist. ‘No, not wine,’ she smiled. ‘Not now. The juice of the poppy which comes from the island of the daydream so I, too, can fly on eagle’s wings.’
I withdrew my hand. I recalled the Magnificent One with his stodgy thighs, dropping arse and fat-caked back, lumbering to meet that mysterious woman in the shadows. Was that Khiya? Had she come seeking the precious opiate which the Magnificent One loved so much?
‘Your Excellency,’ I replied formally, ‘if I had such a juice I, too, would have eagle’s wings.’
Khiya never referred to the matter again. I asked Djarka what he thought.
‘Like you, my lord,’ the title was always tinged with mockery, ‘Khiya is a spectator caught up in the whirl of this frenetic dance.’
‘Don’t talk riddles.’
‘I am not, my lord Mahu. Haven’t you ever wished to be a gentleman of ease living the simple but good life with a wife and family?’
‘I don’t know if I could. As the tree is planted,’ I quoted the proverb I had used with Sobeck, ‘so it grows.’
‘We are not trees, Lord Mahu, but souls who make choices, decisions.’
‘In which case I have made mine. Or had them made for me. I cannot, I will not, leave the dance.’
‘Never?’
‘No, no, no. Never.’
I often thought of that reply but Djarka spoke the truth. Despite my best efforts I was a spectator, a watcher, as when I peered through that secret flap into the Magnificent One’s House of Love. Would I spend my life peering out at the likes of Akhenaten and Nefertiti? Or be part of their lives even as I watched? I concluded both were true and often discussed this with Djarka. He soon proved his worth, a good companion who warmed my heart and eased the bitter cold in my souclass="underline" he was the younger brother I would have loved or the son I might have had. Oh, he was ruthless too, of course, and could kill in the blink of an eye. My gratitude to him for rescuing me from the assassin on the Nile was boundless yet there was more to Djarka than being a good soldier, a good retainer with a truthful heart and clever wits. He became my body servant, a trusted steward, faithful envoy and the nearest thing I ever had to a family. Djarka had a dry sense of humour, a wry attitude to the world. He trusted no one, not even himself, yet he was honest about it. Unlike me, he believed in an afterlife and an ever-seeing, ever-present God, a concept I never understood or accepted. He soon learned that theology bored me and would turn swiftly to other matters, being a superb archer and skilled slinger though he was hopeless with horses.