‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he accused.
In the light of the oil lamps my young friend had aged. His face had lost that olive smoothness, his eyes were red-rimmed; furrows marked either side of his mouth. He had the look of a stricken old man.
‘If I had told you, Djarka, you would not have believed me. I know you. You would have challenged Nekmet. They would have either killed you, lied or fled.’
‘Why?’ Djarka asked. ‘Why did she lie?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll kill Ay,’ Djarka threatened.
‘No, you won’t.’ I clambered to my feet, my legs tense and hard. ‘Come on, Djarka, we have work to do.’
At first I thought he would refuse but Djarka became impatient to discover more evidence, hoping to prove that I was wrong. Yet he knew the truth. Even as he searched he conceded that Makhre and Nekmet had confessed their own guilt.
‘They would have killed us,’ I declared, ‘and taken our corpses out to the Red Lands.’
We searched that house from cellar to the roof. At first we found nothing except indications that Makhre and his daughter had travelled the length and breadth of the kingdom. They possessed considerable wealth. I went down to the cellar, specially constructed to store wine and other goods which had to be kept cool. The cellar was partitioned by a plaster wall. I examined this carefully, removing the makeshift door. I studied the lintels.
‘This was only meant to be a partition,’ I told Djarka, ‘yet it’s at least a yard wide on either side.’ The dividing wall was of wooden boards covered by a thick plaster; the sides on which the door had been fastened consisted of specially hewn beams. We took these away, and discovered that each side of the partition was, in fact, a narrow secret room. Inside we found our proof: a small coffer with medallions and amulets displaying the lion-headed Sekhmet, Syrian bows, three quivers of arrows, swords, daggers, and writing trays. More importantly, the cache held a carefully contrived and beautifully fashioned medicine chest consisting of jars and pots, all sealed and neatly tagged. We brought these out into the light of the oil lamps.
‘I am no physician,’ I declared, ‘but I suspect these are poisons and potions, enough to kill an entire village.’
We also found documents, all officially sealed, and providing different names and details, as well as pots of paints, wigs, and articles of clothing so Makhre and Nekmet could disguise themselves. Small pouches of gold and silver and a casket of precious stones were also stored there.
‘They were always ready for flight,’ I declared. ‘Prepared to move on once their task was done.’
By now Djarka was coldly composed. We returned to the roof and those corpses lying in pools of blood, the flies already gathering.
‘What shall we do?’ Djarka asked.
‘How many people knew we were to be their guests?’
Djarka, his face still tear-stained, shook his head. I ordered him to help. We took the two corpses, wrapping them in sheepskin cloths and tying them securely with cord, then cleared out the secret rooms and placed the two corpses inside. I found a leather bag and gathered up most of the valuables. We drew buckets of water from the fountain and cleared away all signs of our struggle then waited until dawn to study the results of our handiwork. The rooftop was now like any other. In the kitchen we washed the platters and cups in bowls of water and, going down to the cellar, replaced the heavy beams and rehung the door. I checked the house most carefully. Only when satisfied did we leave.
‘Why?’ Djarka asked, as we slipped through the streets back into the central part of the city. ‘Why did we leave it like that?’
‘It’s the only way,’ I retorted. ‘I do not trust Akhenaten’s moods nor Nefertiti’s furious outbursts. The finger of suspicion would be pointed at you.’
Once home, Djarka stripped himself, throwing all his clothes at me.
‘Burn them,’ he called over his shoulder.
He went out into one of the courtyards, washed himself and returned to his chamber. I followed him up. He was preparing for a journey, marching sandals on his feet, a set of leather panniers already packed. Across his shoulder hung a bow and quiver of arrows, a dagger thrust into his belt, a staff in one hand.
‘Djarka?’ I asked.
‘I will leave lord Ay for the time being,’ he muttered and would say no more. He clasped my hand and disappeared. He was gone forty days and forty nights out in the Red Lands. When he returned, his face was blackened by the sun, there were streaks of grey in his hair, and his body and face were hard. He talked little about where he had been but returned to his duties.
During his absence I was busy. I returned to the assassins’ house to ensure everything was well. Of course, questions were asked. I circulated the story about how the owner and his daughter had left in a hurry. Ay had no choice but to co-operate with such a tale, even though he guessed the truth. I confronted him alone in a garden at the palace. At first he acted all diffident, dismissing my accusations with a flutter of his fingers. I told him exactly what had happened and where the corpses of his assassins were hidden.
‘I leave it to you, God’s Father,’ I warned, ‘to take their bodies out for honourable burial. I don’t think you will.’
‘They will eventually smell,’ Ay countered coolly though he was visibly anxious about any eavesdropper or servant coming too close. ‘Or, there again, their corpses are sealed in …’
‘Why did you hire them,’ I asked, ‘and for whom?’
Ay walked away to sniff at some flower. He plucked this and came back twirling it in his fingers, moving his head and neck as if to relieve the tension in his shoulders.
‘My lord Ay,’ I whispered hoarsely, ‘you called me your friend, your ally?’
Ay lifted his head, raising the flower to his nose but using it to mask his lips. ‘Look into my eyes, Mahu. What do you see?’
‘Fear,’ I replied.
‘And fear it is. Soon you shall see the reason why.’
‘Was that the only way?’ I asked.
‘It’s over, Mahu.’ He took the flower away. He gestured with his hand. ‘This is all over. It’s gone wrong. The wine doesn’t taste so sweet or the food so delicious. We were to introduce the worship of the Aten, not go hunting for people who draw geese on the walls of their tombs or keep a statue of Isis in a cupboard. I never dreamed Thebes would be left to rot or our allies across Sinai go down in the dust because we would not help them. Worse still …’ He shook his head. ‘No.’ He threw the flower away. ‘You will see! The Sekhmets were an easy answer.’
Ay refused to tell me any more and that’s the nearest he ever came to a full confession.
The twelfth year of Akhenaten’s reign was now upon us and the King became immersed in celebrating his great jubilee, the anniversary of his coronation. Envoys from other kingdoms were invited to the City of Aten. There was feasting and processions, troops marching backwards and forwards, military displays, festivals and gift-giving. This was a last blaze of light before the darkness. Akhenaten performed his public office with all the majesty he could muster. Dressed in the glorious paraphernalia of Pharaoh, he entertained envoys from Kush, Canaan, Libya as well as ambassadors of the Mitanni and the Hittites. He lectured them on the virtues of the Aten, he and Nefertiti portraying themselves as the dazzling incarnation of their god. This was only a mask. During the ceremonies he showed a marked coldness towards his wife. I had been so busy on my own affairs I hadn’t reflected on how, in the previous months, Akhenaten had often absented himself whilst Lady Khiya had virtually vanished from the court.
All this was the precursor of the storm. The tempest broke when the jubilee festival was over and Akhenaten and Nefertiti presided over a meeting of the Royal Circle. The only people invited were the Devout and the children of the Kap. It began in the usual perfunctory way. Meryre intoned a prayer to the Aten which went on and on. Horemheb sat beating a tattoo on his knee whilst Rameses pretended to doze. Everyone else was subdued. The great persecution of Amun was now complete, leaving a sour taste in people’s mouths. Of course Pentju was not there, being banished from Nefertiti’s presence. I’d glimpsed his face three days previously and wondered why he looked so secretive, eyes red-rimmed as if he had been crying. The meeting was also attended by three of Akhenaten’s eldest daughters, Meketaten, Meritaten and Ankhespaaten. The twins were comely enough but Ankhespaaten was the one with vigour and life, a beautiful young girl probably no more than ten summers old. She had inherited some of her mother’s seductive, alluring beauty, eyes full of expression, her movements exquisitely feminine. Even at that early age she displayed her body, clothed in perfumed robes, to catch and draw the attention of men. All three daughters kneeled on cushions at Nefertiti’s feet. The twins were subdued but Ankhespaaten, a glorious fillet of gold binding her hair, stared imperiously around, eyes constantly moving, a faint smile on those lovely lips.