I replied that I did not wish to see him again. I added that there were good farms to be bought in the Delta and, if I found him in Thebes the day after next, I would have him impaled in the courtyard outside. I left the fellow to his trembling and met the other scribes, all of whom took the oath. Ay had already given me a list of supporters in the House of Secrets. I chose a lean, youngish-looking Canaanite called Tutu, blunt of speech, sharp of wit and shrewd-eyed. He also had a dry sense of humour, promising to be the most loyal and true Chief of Scribes.
‘After all,’ he added, ‘the worst thing after impalement would be to become a farmer.’
I inspected the House of Secrets but Hotep had done his task well. Many valuable records and manuscripts had simply disappeared. Ay had ordered that, for the moment, neither Hotep nor Shishnak be touched. Nevertheless, I ringed God’s Father Hotep’s opulent mansion with mercenaries as ‘protection during this emergency’ and did the same for the Priests’ Quarter at Karnak. I became very busy exploiting the growing feeling of outrage in Thebes and throughout the cities along the Nile, at the attempted assassination of Pharaoh’s beloved Co-regent. Ay’s agents were also busy. The chorus of support for Akhenaten swelled into a hymn to be heard on everyone’s lips. Foreign envoys visited the Palace of Aten with assurances of support. Mayors and high priests flocked to Akhenaten’s splendid receptions in the opulent halls or gorgeous gardens of the Malkata Palace. The immense House of Silver was opened. The treasure of the temples became a river, an unending source of gifts and bribes.
In the month following the Battle in the Valley of the Shadows, Ay and I worked tirelessly, silencing all opposition and encouraging the stream of flattery and praise for our master. Hotep stayed in his mansion tending his garden and composing poetry. Everyone at court realised he had been involved in treason and conspiracy yet he was still the Magnificent One’s closest friend, the architect of the glory of the old Pharaoh’s reign. Karnak was different. Our spies amongst the priests reported growing divisions and feuds, open muttering which eventually spilt into fierce resentment and revolt at the way Shishnak had managed temple affairs. Bereft of support in either Karnak or Luxor, Shishnak did what I prayed he would. He tried to flee, dressed as a woman, accompanied by a few acolytes. He took a barge North looking for sanctuary. I was waiting for him, with four war-barges full of mercenaries and marines. We intercepted Shishnak’s craft, sank it and all aboard, except for Shishnak whom a boarding party plucked screaming from the stern before I gave the order for the Karnak barge to be rammed. Shishnak was bereft of all dignity, a comical figure in his rather gaudy wig, fringed shawl and gauffered linen robe. I insisted that he wear them even as I bound his arms, ignoring his pleas for mercy. I took him to the Palace of the Aten for summary trial before Akhenaten, Nefertiti, and Ay. He was greeted with mocking laughter followed by punches and kicks. Nefertiti, resplendent in her robes, clawed his cheek and spat into his face. Akhenaten punched him in the stomach whilst Ay lounged in his chair and roared with laughter. Shishnak did not face death courageously. He begged and bawled. He tried to plead and bargain. When this was rejected he fell sullenly quiet, refusing to answer the charges of treason and murder.
‘You killed my brother!’ Akhenaten bellowed. ‘You intended to murder me! You have always wanted my death. You used the temple gold to bribe the Libyans. You suborned Snefru. You attacked,’ he gestured at me, ‘my friend.’ He punched Shishnak in the face, splitting his upper lip and drawing blood from his nose. ‘You, a priest of Amun, who wipes the arse of a wooden idol and plots the murder and destruction of God’s Holy One.’
‘No!’ Shishnak wailed, his painted face now splattered with blood, tears and sweat, the ridiculous wig hanging askew. ‘It was not me but God’s Father …’
‘God’s Father?’ Nefertiti yelled, her beautiful face contorted with rage. ‘God’s Father! How dare you give that viper of a traitor such a title!’ She lunged from her chair, a pointed hair-clasp in her hand and gouged the side of Shishnak’s neck. The man screamed, turning on his knees as he tried to hobble towards me.
‘Mahu,’ he whined, ‘for pity’s sake!’
I knelt beside him and removed that ridiculous wig and wiped his face with a damp cloth. I held a cup of wine laced with myrrh to his lips.
‘Drink,’ I urged.
Shishnak did so even as Nefertiti screamed at me. Akhenaten protested at the cup being sullied while Ay sat smug and pleased as a cat revelling in the scene.
‘Drink,’ I repeated. ‘Shishnak, you are going to die. All you must do is decide how.’
‘Confess,’ Ay drawled. He played with the bowl of iced melon in his lap. He sucked on a piece, then offered the bowl to Akhenaten.
‘Confess,’ I urged. ‘Shishnak, you plotted our deaths — the Holy One, his Great Wife, God’s Father Ay and myself. Would you have shown me pity, would you have laughed as I was impaled or buried alive in the Red Lands?’
Shishnak drank greedily from the cup.
‘You are like a soldier,’ I continued. ‘You chose to go to war and you lost. Go into the night like a man.’
I recalled the Jackal leader chuckling at me, the ice-cold terror I felt on that nightmare river journey. ‘I can do no more.’
I let him drain the cup. Djarka joined us in the hall of columns. He fastened a cord round Shishnak’s forehead, looped in a small rod and began to turn. Shishnak’s screams were hideous. Akhenaten called for a halt. The Hittite Orchestra of the Sun was summoned, gathering at the far end of the hall, and ordered to play as loudly as possible. Djarka returned to his task. Shishnak’s eyes bulged, face turning a purple-red, veins standing out. Every so often Akhenaten would crouch before him.
‘Yes, Shishnak?’ he would ask.
Nefertiti became interested in a floral design she was painting. Ay returned to the reed basket of documents on the floor beside him. They only became interested when Shishnak broke. He talked in exchange for a speedy death and honourable burial. In the end he simply confirmed what we already knew: the plot against Akhenaten at the Temple of Karnak; the unfortunate death of Tuthmosis; the bribing of the Libyans with gold; the suborning of Snefru and the attack on me. To give him credit he took full responsibility and would give no other name. By now he knew he was going to die, determined to salvage whatever dignity he could.
‘I can tell you no more.’ He shook his head, his face a dreadful mass of blood and bruises. ‘As you say, Mahu, I fought and lost.’
I crouched before him. ‘Murder, assassination, attempted regicide, blasphemy, high treason,’ I declared. ‘Fitting tasks for a High Priest of Amun.’ I paused. ‘Surely you have other names?’ I picked the bloody cord from the floor and handed it back to Djarka.
‘Rahimere,’ Shishnak stuttered.
‘He’s already dead from fright.’
‘Or poison,’ Nefertiti said coquettishly.
‘And God’s Father Hotep?’ I asked.
Shishnak nodded. ‘Always Hotep,’ he sighed. ‘From the very beginning it was always Hotep.’
Nefertiti herself brought the cup. She squatted on cushions and, head to one side, watched Shishnak intently as he drank the poisoned wine. Akhenaten lounged in his thronelike chair, one finger to his mouth, the other beating a tattoo on his arm as if measuring the music of his orchestra. Ay composed a poem, ‘The Death of Amun’. I walked away. Eventually, Shishnak ceased his death groans. Akhenaten stood over the corpse.