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‘How do you know it was he?’

‘He wore the Peschet, the Two Crowns.’

‘What does he look like?’

My heart skipped a beat as the Hittite gave a description which could fit Akenhaten: tall, thin, with misshapen body, wide hips, long face and strange eyes.

‘Who were his closest councillors?’

‘Two of your priests, Khufu and Djoser. They go everywhere with him.’

‘And who else?’

‘Hittite colonels. Commanders of the royal hosts.’

‘So this usurper does have the support of your king?’

‘Hittite commanders,’ the prisoner replied.

‘And how many men do you have?’

The Hittite sipped at the wine, and his gaze shifted to me, a spark of amusement in his eyes. He must have heard Nebamun use my name. He put down his cup and jabbed his finger at me.

‘He asks if you are the lord Mahu,’ the scribe turned to me, ‘and so wonders why you are not with the true Pharaoh.’

‘How many men?’ I repeated Nebamun’s question.

‘About ten thousand in all.’ The Hittite grinned as Nebamun whistled under his breath.

‘He’s lying,’ the scribe hissed.

‘And who else?’ Nebamun insisted. ‘Who advises this so-called Pharaoh?’

‘Aziru, King of Byblos!’

A collective sigh rose from Nebamun’s advisers.

‘Nothing we don’t already suspect,’ Nebamun murmured. ‘A usurper assisted by our enemies in Canaan, and of course, the Hittites love to dabble where they shouldn’t.’

‘Describe the woman,’ I asked. ‘This Pharaoh’s wife-queen.’

The Hittite put his hands to his head, talking excitedly. I caught the word ‘Nefertiti’.

‘She is so beautiful,’ the scribe translated. ‘Red hair and eyes so green like those of a cat.’

‘Then she is a pretender.’ I smiled at the Hittite. ‘The Nefertiti I knew had blue eyes.’ I tapped the scribe on the wrist. ‘Tell him that. Tell him I saw Nefertiti die.’

The scribe translated. The Hittite shrugged and drank greedily from his goblet.

‘He is only telling us what he knows,’ the scribe declared. I wondered what the Hittite really knew of the Egyptian language. He grinned at me through broken bloody teeth.

‘Perhaps we should kill him slowly and cruelly?’

A shift in the Hittite’s eyes.

‘You know our tongue?’ I taunted.

He made a cutting movement across his throat. I caught the words ‘Gerh en arit sapt.’

‘What was that?’

‘He says that all of us will die on the Night of Judgment. You are right, my lord Mahu, he does know our tongue.’

‘Who sent him on this mission?’ I asked.

‘Heripetchiu, the commander of the mercenaries.’

‘What happens,’ I leaned across, pointing to my chest, ‘if we go as envoys to this usurper?’

The scribe translated.

Shemensuion.’ I used the Egyptian word. ‘Shemensuion,’ I repeated. ‘A royal envoy.’

Set saseer, sekht sasa,’ the Hittite replied.

‘Nonsense,’ I taunted back.

Per khet,’ the Hittite spat out. ‘Samu sabas ebu, seba sebu.

‘He’s saying, my Lord Mahu …’ the scribe began.

‘I know what he’s saying.’ I held the Hittite’s gaze. ‘That if I go, I will enter the Field of Fire, the House of Darkness, where the demons and devourers are waiting for me.’

Mahu mahez.’ The Hittite was laughing now, making a pun on my name. ‘Mahu mahez.’

‘So I’ll be eaten by the fierce-eyed lion? Devoured by the lion-headed serpent?’

The Hittite nodded like an excited child. The scribe returned to his questioning about the attack. This time the Hittite was more forthcoming. We listened attentively as he described how they had sailed untroubled along the river under false standards, pretending to be mercenaries bound for the garrison at Memphis, the White-Walled City. How no one had challenged them, how at night they had sheltered in lonely places along the river.

‘He’s telling the truth,’ Nebamun agreed. ‘The lord Horemheb will be concerned. There are war barges on the river, armed men going backwards and forwards. There are stretches of the Nile to the north of this city where you could hide a fleet of barges. Ask him if he knew that Prince Tutankhamun was here?’

The Hittite replied that he did, and that was why they had come: to take back the Pharaoh’s true son and heir, together with his sister.

‘How did they know?’ I asked.

The Hittite shrugged his shoulders and gabbled quickly.

‘He says,’ the scribe translated, ‘that they knew but he does not know how or why.’

‘Did they have friends here?’ I asked. ‘Allies who helped them?’

Again, the shrug.

‘He’s a junior officer,’ Nebamun intervened. ‘I suspect they hoped to take the house.’ He fell silent; he did not wish to discuss such a matter with his officers present.

The questioning continued. The Hittite lapsed into Egyptian and began taunting us again. At last Nebamun made a cutting movement with his hand.

‘He’s told us what he can and he’s finished the wine.’ He raised his hands and snapped his fingers.

Behind us the Nubian archers pulled back their bows. The Hittite stretched up; one arrow took him deep in the chest, the other in the throat. He thrashed back against the wall, legs and arms twitching, head going backwards and forwards, blood spurting between his lips, then he gave a sigh and his head fell to one side.

‘Take his body and put it with the rest.’ Nebamun got to his feet.

We left the cellar and went back into the courtyard. I glanced up, Ankhesenamun was smiling down at me from a window, Meryre beside her. I stayed for a while, following Nebamun across that slaughter yard, where the enemy dead were being stripped, their right hands cut off, their corpses thrown into a cart. Nebamun had ordered them to be taken down to a nearby crocodile pool. The quartermasters were surveying the pile of bloody weapons. An army scribe was sitting on a camp stool, writing tray across his lap, busily counting the severed hands, coldly, methodically, as if he was making a tally of bushels of wheat or jugs of wine.

‘About four hundred in all, my lord.’ He raised his head as Nebamun approached. The colonel wafted away the hovering flies.

‘Finish the count,’ he said. ‘Some of the corpses we will never find.’ He gestured at the severed limbs. ‘These can join the rest.’ He raised his voice. ‘I want the courtyard cleaned with water and vinegar, baskets of flowers brought out to hide the smell. This is my house, not a slaughter pit.’

I was eager to talk to Nebamun but I could not discuss anything whilst the rest were present, so I excused myself and returned to my own chamber. I stripped and washed in salt water, anointed myself, put on a clean loincloth, robe and soft sandals. I was dazed and confused after the battle. I still felt as if there were blood swilling around my feet.

Djarka was waiting for me in the Prince’s quarters. He was kneeling on the floor; Tutankhamun was playing with toy soldiers. On either side sat Ankhesenamun and Amedeta, both garbed in loose white robes.

‘All hail the returning hero.’ Ankhesenamun smiled. She rose and filled a goblet of wine, and, coming across, pressed it into my hand. Her perfume was fragrant after the stench of slaughter, the tang of blood and the sweaty mustiness of that cellar. ‘We prayed for you, my lord Mahu. How did it all happen?’

I sipped at the white wine. Ankhesenamun stepped back and surveyed me from head to toe.

‘Your eyes look strange and your cheeks are unshaven,’ she murmured, ‘but otherwise not a cut or a mark. What would have happened, my lord Mahu, if they had broken through?’

‘They would not have found you.’ Djarka spoke up. ‘I have told you, my lady, what my orders were.’

I glanced round at the Prince, playing with his toy soldiers, unaware of my presence. Usually he would jump to his feet and run towards me. I went and crouched beside him. He was muttering under his breath, pushing one wooden soldier against another, the usual childish game, but now he did it with an intensity I had never seen before.