As in death, so in life. We were all given psalters with prayers and hymns to the Aten. We were invited to compete, to show our adulation to the Aten and the royal couple. Even wall paintings had to reflect Akhenaten’s command about ‘living in the truth’: they had to be executed according to a certain style. Some people may call it original, thought-provoking and beautiful. To a certain extent that’s true but, when you are surrounded by it day and night, ordered to decorate your tombs in the same imagery, it becomes tiresome like hearing the same piece of music, not so well played, being repeated time and time again.
Why did I stay? Well, where else could I go? My interrogators have asked me why I didn’t flee. I think for a long time. I reflect. I recall those events and the answer is quite simple.
Nefertiti’s smile!
Mahu, Commander of the Police of Akhenaten.
(Inscription from Mahu’s tomb at El-Amarna, the City of the Aten.)
Chapter 17
Oh, it was all true. Nefertiti was beauty itself but in the City of the Aten she proved the truth that beauty has its own terror. Physically she changed. Her face became leaner and harder, the cheekbones more pronounced, her head constantly tilted back, the gaze from those seductive eyes more imperious. She lost her laughter, that streak of girlish impishness and love of mystery. She seemed to live in a blaze of light and assumed the aura of an unapproachable goddess, as if she wished to merge with her husband in both appearance and power. She began to wear the Nubian bag wig which left the nape of her neck exposed, two plaits hanging down either side, imitating the hairstyle of the warriors in her retinue. She wore the flowing, gorgeous robes of a queen but she often manifested herself in a bleak narrow kilt like that of a soldier, though longer, falling to her ankles. The Hathor crown with its horns and plumes was put aside for a small feathered blue crown, very similar to the Imperial War Crown of Egypt. In paintings and carvings Nefertiti was now often depicted as smiting an enemy, adopting the stylistic ritual of a triumphant Pharaoh meting out justice to his enemies. In all things she appeared as a female soldier, a war goddess.
At the same time Akhenaten began to dress in floral attire, perfume-drenched wigs and the light flowing robes of a woman. This transfer of robes and roles was like the meeting of two forces. Would it be a true mingling, I wondered. Or would one absorb the other? If Akhenaten saw himself as the Incarnation of the Aten, what role could be, would be, assigned to Nefertiti? Would they see themselves as the male and female expression of the Godhead, or would he resent it?
The imperial harem at the City of the Aten with its concubines and Royal Ornaments expanded to include noblewomen from different parts of the Empire and those kingdoms who expressed their loyalty by despatching their fairest princesses for the pleasure of Egypt’s Pharaoh. Nevertheless Nefertiti still ruled Akhenaten’s heart, or so it seemed. Perhaps I was the only one to sense an underlying friction, an impatience on his part with Nefertiti who, at the City of the Aten, provided him with two more daughters but not the son he craved for, the future bearer of his life-giving seed. Sometimes Akhenaten spoke to me alone, not about affairs of state or the security of the city, but reminiscences about the past when he was the Veiled One, living, as he put it, ‘in complete holiness and purity’. I wondered if he yearned for those days. Was he resenting the growing power and strength of Nefertiti, who had failed to produce a beloved son? Queen Tiye’s influence had certainly declined. Since the death of the Magnificent One she had lost that aura of power, of ruthless will, as if the accession of her second son and the building of the City of the Aten was the realisation of a dream. I suspect she, too, recognised that all was not well. During ceremonies and processions the tension between the royal couple was sometimes apparent, as if my master wanted to be by himself before the Aten, unwilling and unable to share his divine status with anyone.
In his talks with me he would speak of those cherished memories when he, and no one else, walked the Way to the One.
‘I never,’ he declared defiantly, ‘adored another god,’ and then as a veiled attack upon his mother, his wife and the entire Akhmin gang, ‘nor did I dance, sing, or profane myself before false idols like that of Min at Akhmin.’
Such moods passed. He’d assume that trancelike state, the result of Nefertiti’s potions and powders. At other times, when I was summoned to his chamber or into his gardens, he’d sit withdrawn, unshaven, bleary-eyed as if he had been drinking heavily. Once, when I was waiting, kicking my heels in an antechamber, I heard the sound of raised voices from the imperial bedroom, a heated discussion about the liturgy to be used in a forthcoming ceremony at the sun altar. On another occasion I was summoned to the imperial residence. Akhenaten, heavy-eyed, face drawn, sat in the glorious Green Room staring out over the garden.
‘Well,’ he demanded as I knelt and nosed the ground, ‘I have waited long enough. Your spy in Akhmin — what does he report?’
‘Your Majesty,’ I remained kneeling. ‘What spy? What report?’
‘You know full well,’ Akhenaten shouted threateningly.
I lifted my head. Spots of anger coloured his sallow face, those strange eyes gleamed, dark wells of anger. He seemed on the verge of hitting me.
‘You know what?’ He stared at me, mouth sagging. ‘I am sorry, Baboon,’ he stammered. ‘I made a mistake,’ and summarily dismissed me.
Nefertiti’s sun, however, burned as brightly and fiercely as ever though she must have sensed her husband’s disappointment at the lack of a male heir. After the birth of her sixth daughter, in year nine of Akhenaten’s reign, she held a celebration in the garden below the Green Room. The children of the Kap were invited. It was like the old days: tables were stacked with platters of every food imaginable and delicious wine had been specially imported from Buto in the Delta. Akhenaten laughed and chatted to Ay. Nefertiti sat, serenely accepting compliments when Pentju, full of wine, cracked a joke about the sex of a child being the gift of the gods. Nefertiti heard him.
‘What?’ she screamed.
The festivities fell silent. Nefertiti sprang from the chair, clutching her walking stick, carved with the signs of the Aten. The birth of her last child had been a painful process, leaving her weak but, strengthened by her fury, she walked along the line of guests and glowered down at Pentju.
‘Scorpion man!’ she hissed. ‘What do you say about gods, when there is only one! And this gift? Are you saying I am not blessed by the One? He has provided me with six beautiful daughters. Have I failed because there is no prince, no forked child?’
Guests on either side hastily withdrew. Pentju, quivering with fright, hurriedly made obeisance.
‘Divine One,’ he pleaded, ‘I made a joke …’
‘A joke! Am I a joke?’ And, before anyone could stop her, Nefertiti rained blows down on Pentju’s bent back. He scrambled away. In the confusion his robes became tangled while his loincloth slipped, exposing bare buttocks. Nefertiti, screaming with laughter, lashed out at these. The rest of the guests gazed on in horror. Nefertiti swung her stick as if it was a war-club. Pentju, screaming, tried to crawl away but was trapped in his robe. Akhenaten glowered sullenly. Tiye sat, face in hands. Ay looked frightened. Rameses lowered his face to hide his snigger. Tables and platters were sent tumbling. Blood appeared on the grass. I sprang to my feet, pulled Pentju away and crouched down telling him to recover his dignity and flee. I glanced up. Nefertiti stood before me, eyes full of fury, those delicious lips curled in a snarl.