Afterwards, in the seclusion of his own private garden, Ay convened a second meeting of the children of the Kap, including Pentju. He questioned the physician most closely about the health and wellbeing of the young Prince. Pentju replied truthfully but made it very clear that the young boy was in his care and would only be handed over to those Akhenaten appointed. Ay pursed his lips, pronounced himself satisfied and moved to the other items of business. We sat in the shade sipping Charou wine and quenching our thirst on slices of lemon and pomegranate, whilst we divided an empire.
Following so swiftly after the meeting of the Royal Circle I felt I could have burst out laughing. No one questioned Ay’s decision or the underlying principle that Akhenaten’s reign was coming to an end, his revolution no more exciting than a dried-out riverbed. Huy and Maya gave a pithy blunt description of affairs. How Thebes was seething with unrest. The treasuries were empty whilst beyond Egypt’s borders the allegiance of our allies was growing weaker by the month. Horemheb delivered more ominous news. How the Egyptian army high command at Memphis were on the brink of mutiny: bereft of supplies, weapons and recruits, commanders were unable to despatch any troops across Sinai either to support Egypt’s allies or defend her precious mines and trade routes.
At last the decision was made. Huy and Maya would return to Thebes. They would form their own House of Scribes and secretly plan for the future. Horemheb, supported by Rameses, would be appointed Commander-in-Chief of all Egypt’s forces and take over the garrison at Memphis. Ay urged the need for secrecy but they were all to follow the same path and sing the same hymn. They were to restore confidence, assure the powerful that the old ways would return, that the City of the Aten was merely a stumbling block in the glorious path of Egypt’s true destiny. No one, of course, dared raise, even hint, at what Akhenaten might think or say. Ay already had that under control. Each of my colleagues were given their seals of office, their commissions all bearing the royal cartouche of Akhenaten. Once he had finished, each of us took an oath of loyalty, of common friendship and alliance. Hands were clasped and the children of the Kap went their own way.
A few weeks later I broached the matter of Akhenaten’s state of mind with Ay. I avoided the temptation of confronting him. I believed we shared a common soul, or at least I thought we did. Ay was as dangerous and as cunning as a mongoose. What memories does any hunter hold of what he’s slain? The hunter lives for the moment and plans for the future. Ay had to view me as an ally, not as his conscience. He listened to what I said and brought his fingers to his lips.
‘Very perceptive, Mahu. As always you point your finger at the heart of the problem.’
‘Don’t patronise me, God’s Father,’ I retorted. ‘Huy and Mahu, not to mention Horemheb and Rameses, even Pentju, must be thinking the same. Tutu and Meryre are easy to fool. They still dream and haven’t woken up.’
‘We will see,’ Ay replied. ‘We shall speak to the Divine One and his Co-regent.’
Naturally I reported to Djarka what had happened. Most of it he knew, or at least suspected, but he was intrigued by the reference to a Co-regent. Djarka openly wondered if Ay had managed to worm himself so firmly back into Akhenaten’s affections that he was being raised to the rank and title of Pharaoh.
‘And yet,’ Djarka shook his head, ‘I find that impossible. Nobody would accept him.’
‘What about Crown Prince Tutankhaten?’ I asked.
‘But he’s only a child.’
On the day of audience Ay collected me from my house, making sure that I was dressed in the full ceremonial robes of a courtier. Surrounded by fan-bearers and flunkies and preceded by heralds and musicians, we swept up into the Palace of the Aten. The gateways and corridors, courtyards and gardens were full of Nakhtimin’s men in the full regalia of battle, blue and gold head-dresses, snow-white kilts, spears and shields at the ready. At the door to the Throne Room a host of chamberlains and office-holders milled about. Trumpets blared. Gongs sounded. Gusts of incense perfumed the air. Meryre, dressed in his exquisite robes, escorted us into the imperial presence. The Throne Room had been changed. A raised daïs covered in gold-leaf now held two resplendent thrones. I could only stand and gape. Ankhesenamun and Meritaten were sitting at the edge of the daïs on small cushioned chairs. Akhenaten wore the Double Crown of Egypt, a cloth of gold round his shoulders, the Nekhbet pectoral shimmering brilliantly against his chest, and a brilliant white kilt falling down to his ankles. Beside him was a resplendent figure. I gasped in astonishment. This person too wore the full regalia of Pharaoh, grasping the flail and the rod, but the face was that of Great Queen Nefertiti. Her glorious hair had been shaven, her eyebrows plucked, her face carefully painted like that of her husband. At first glance she seemed not to have aged a day but, as I drew closer, I glimpsed the stoop of her shoulders, the podgy arms and fat hands, the cheeks slightly sagging, the lines round the mouth which even the paint could not disguise. Ay, quietly revelling in my surprise, knelt on the cushions and made obeisance. I did likewise, my forehead touching the ground. We received no command to rise. Akhenaten’s voice boomed out.
‘Now let it be known to the Kingdom of the Two Lands. Let my words be carried beyond the Third Cataract that I, in my wisdom, under the guidance of my Father, have decreed that my Great Wife and Great Queen Nefernefruaten-Nefertiti is now my co-ruler, assuming the name of Ankheperure-Smenkhkare-Nefernefruaten. Let it be known that her imperial seal carries the will of God; the voice of Smenkhkare will be obeyed.’
On and on he went, proclaiming the greatness of Nefertiti under her new name Smenkhkare. Of course I could only kneel and listen, recalling how Egypt had once boasted of its great Queen Pharaohs, such as Hatchesphut, daughter of the great Tuthmosis III. When Akhenaten finished, we were told to kneel back. I gazed on the face which had always haunted my soul. For a moment, those eyes shifted, a slight smile appeared, before the imperial mask returned. Akhenaten then proceeded to issue a series of decrees, each one being repeated but most of them only confirmed what Ay had already decided.
Once they had finished we were ordered to withdraw. Ay led me out into one of the small walled gardens where tables had been prepared with silver dishes and goblets, fruit and wine being served by servants who quickly withdrew.
‘How long have you known this?’ I asked.
‘For a short while,’ Ay grinned.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why has this happened?’
‘Why, Mahu? Because you yourself pleaded with Akhenaten. Did you not say his Great Queen should be restored? All right,’ he scoffed, ‘I see the cynical smile.’
Ay walked over to the sun pavilion and sat on a cushioned seat indicating I sit next to him.
‘The honest answer is that Akhenaten has come to his senses. Nefertiti is the life-force of his soul. In fact, I go further — she is his Ka, his Ba, the very essence of his being. He bans Nefertiti and what happens? Three of his children die! The children he had by his two daughters do not survive. A great plague has swept through the City of Aten. There are troubles in Thebes and elsewhere. It’s not difficult, Mahu, to make Akhenaten reflect on the reason why the milk has gone sour. Of course,’ he plucked at the embroidered sash round his waist and stared quizzically at a painting on the wall of the pavilion, ‘he does love her, Mahu. He has missed her sweet breath, her gracious smile.’