Akhenaten would sometimes journey up the Nile on the barge The Glory of Aten to visit the sacred place as he had done years earlier. I was never invited along. Only Ay, Nefertiti and their children, protected by Nakhtimin’s palace guards who were never allowed to land, accompanied them. During such absences I’d take a chariot out with Djarka as my companion. We’d gallop across the fringes of the desert, Karnak bounding behind us, trying to keep up and not be lost in a cloud of dust. I would put the chariot into a furious war charge, wheels rattling, carriage swaying, horses galloping full out. We’d hurtle across the hard ground until the horses became exhausted. Afterwards we’d eat and drink and discuss the affairs of the court. On other occasions we’d hunt gazelle or antelope, me guiding the chariot, Djarka standing beside me, feet apart, his great Syrian bow strung, Karnak loping alongside ready to bring down our wounded quarry. I loved the hunt for the sake of the chase but we could also talk, well away from walls and windows, free of servants and the lurking eavesdropper. Djarka was full of praise for Great Queen Tiye whom he worshipped. On Akhenaten he would not comment except to make an observation very similar to Sobeck’s.
‘He has a destiny. Our Prince has a vision for Egypt better than what has gone before but he must remember he is not that vision, only its prophet.’
As our friendship grew Djarka became more scathing about Ay and Nefertiti. He was aware of my infatuation with the Princess but trusted me, not hesitating to dismiss them both as ‘thieves from the Underworld’. I’d argue back but I could never change his mind.
‘They are opportunists,’ he told me, ‘infatuated with power along with the whole Akhmin gang.’
‘You are prejudiced.’
‘And you are infatuated, Mahu — a dangerous thing for a Chief of Police. Little Khiya knows the truth,’ he added, ‘that’s why she stares so empty-headed. Why do you think they trust you? Because they know they control you; you are their property, body and soul.’
Such arguments would become intense, but in the end Djarka would just laugh.
‘When all is said and done,’ he’d conclude, ‘it will be Akhenaten who decides.’
On other occasions we’d discuss the growing tensions in Thebes, a dull ache which never went away. Djarka was always solemn about that. ‘I agree with Queen Tiye,’ he’d murmur. ‘Whatever we do, it will end in blood.’
Month had followed month, season had followed season, year had followed year, full of rumour and gossip. I had become accustomed to it. When the bloodletting finally came, it began so softly, indistinct, like the rains do when a mere cloud, the size of a man’s hand, appears in the brilliant blue sky. In the second month of Peret, in the Season of the Sowing, our cloud appeared. A message came from Sobeck to meet him out at the Oasis of Strangers in the Western Red Lands. He was waiting for me and Djarka, his scorpion men all about him, armed to the teeth, guarding the oasis, its palm trees dying as the well which once served it slowly dried up. Sobeck escorted me deeper into the oasis while Djarka unhitched the horses and led them into the shade. Sobeck’s scorpion men drifted across to chat as well as to admire our harness and carriage.
‘Listen to this, Mahu.’ Sobeck put an arm across my shoulder. ‘One of my acquaintances, a merchant, trades in animal skins with the Libyans. He brought me a strange rumour that one of their most powerful tribes is moving South.’
‘The Libyans are always doing that, probing for a weakness.’
Sobeck held up a hand. ‘These are buying up weapons, chariots and warhorses and they are not using animal skins to barter with, but this.’ He opened his left hand; the small six-sided ingot of gold winked in the sunlight. I plucked it up and weighed it in my hand.
‘Pure gold,’ Sobeck confirmed. ‘Freshly minted, unmarked. The Libyans are using that to buy arms from mercenaries along the coast of the Great Green.’
‘This comes from Egypt. Is it possible,’ I replied, ‘that only a few are being used?’
‘My merchant friend says the Libyans have plenty — and there is more.’ Sobeck gestured to the distant heat haze. ‘My friend became very curious, even more so, when this tribe or clan — well, at least its warriors, about five hundred in all — completely disappeared from their usual hunting grounds. Well now!’ He played with the ring in his earlobe. ‘My spies eventually learned from the womenfolk that, ten days ago, these warriors moved across into the Eastern Desert. They are still out there, a war-party with weapons and provisions.’
‘What about our scouts and patrols?’
‘How far do they go, Mahu — twenty, thirty miles at the most? The Libyans are further out.’
‘The Eastern Desert Lands are quiet.’
‘Precisely. You don’t expect to find a Libyan army across the Nile.’ Sobeck grinned. ‘Moreover, they’ve probably broken up into small cohorts. Oh well.’ He patted his flat stomach, brushing away the sweat. ‘I have also brought you a present — two, in fact.’
He called across the oasis. A scorpion man hurried over, placed two leather buckets at Sobeck’s feet and threw back the flaps. I flinched at the stench of corruption from the two severed heads; flies, whirling black dots, came buzzing out.
‘I think you have been introduced.’ Sobeck lifted the face of the old man, the Jackal’s assassin. I had told Sobeck the tale and ordered him to wipe out the entire clan.
‘Oh yes, he survived.’ Sobeck tapped one of the sunken yellowing teeth. ‘I caught up with him sheltering in a village to the south of Thebes. He’s the last so there will be no blood feud.’ He threw the head like a ball onto the sand and plucked out the second, a Libyan with long hair, swarthy skin, peaked nose and full lips, a calm composed face bereft of the horror which had masked that of the old assassin. ‘My merchant friend was so intrigued I became curious. I hired some of my Sand Wanderers to search well beyond the area patrolled by the chariot squadrons. They caught three scouts. Two were killed but this one,’ he threw the head after the other, ‘was brought in. I questioned him, with the help of a little fire.’
‘Won’t they be missed?’ I asked.
Sobeck shook his head. ‘Libyans are travelling across a terrain unknown to them; it’s quite common for scouts and guides to become lost. Anyway, he spoke before he died. His war-party had been bribed to cross with gold, silver, precious stones and whatever plunder they could take.’
‘By whom?’
‘I don’t know. It would have to be someone very powerful.’ Sobeck continued, ‘Think, Mahu, five hundred warriors crossing the Nile. They would need barges, someone to look the other way.’
‘And the prisoner told you?’
‘They crossed just above the First Cataract.’
‘A deserted place,’ I declared. ‘No black lands or greenery.’
‘That’s where the scouts were found, in an area where there are no mines and very few patrols — an arid, deserted place. Someone must have provided the barges, a deserted mooring place, as well as maps of the wells and springs. Anyway, now I was truly intrigued. I took my bodyguard down the Nile and found the barges still moored there.’
‘So the Libyans have a way back?’
‘Five hundred fighters, Mahu, warriors: very well-armed, bribed with gold, and furnished with barges and maps, hiding in a place no one would think of searching. What are they going to attack?’
‘It can’t be Thebes, it’s too powerful.’
‘The Malkata lies on the east bank,’ Sobeck whispered, ‘so does the Palace of the Aten.’
‘All are well-guarded.’
‘Against a sudden assault?’