I, as Tutankhamun’s official guardian, sat on his right, my lieutenants Sobeck and Djarka behind me. Ay and Nakhtimin sat to the left: Nakhtimin was being promoted more and more into the Royal Circle to offset the military might of Horemheb. The rest ranged either side of us: Horemheb and Rameses, for once out of uniform. Pentju and Huy, Meryre, Tutu, Akenhaten’s duplicitous chamberlain, and Rahmose, General of the Troops of the Aten. Some had been fervent in the Great Heretic’s cause, others cooler, the rest just self-seeking. They reminded me of a pack of hyaenas lounging in the shade of some rocks. We watched each other, ready to act as a pack, to hunt and tear down any common enemy, or, if circumstances changed, turn on each other. Circumstances were about to change.
On that day, an auspicious day I recall, sacred to the Goddess Hathor, we were watching a stick fight between two of the Nakhtu-aa, strong-arm boys, veterans from the Ptah regiment who had killed three enemies in hand-to-hand combat then taken their hands, penises or noses, whatever trophy had been demanded. These two were the most skilled fighters in their regiment and Rameses had arranged for a display of their prowess. We watched them circle, garbed in loincloths, their oiled bodies coated in dust. They each scored, time and again, until the blood oozed out of sharp cuts and burst welts. They moved like dancers, bare feet slapping the ground, sharp-edged canes raised, seeking the advantage. They were growing tired, wary of each other. I became distracted, my attention diverted by one of those sharp-eared cats much beloved by Ay, a great tabby who had caught a baby hare and was now playing with it in the shadow of a carved lion.
‘Again!’ one of the fighters shouted.
The warriors drew apart, their sticks clashed. Somewhere in the palace a conch horn wailed, cymbals clashed. I turned and glanced at one of the doors. The guards were already opening it. A messenger came hurrying through, sandalled feet smacking the stone floor. He was drenched in sweat, his tight loincloth grimy and dirty; around his neck was the official collar of an imperial runner. The fighters stopped and drew apart. The messenger flung himself on his knees before Tutankhamun, brow touching the ground. Ay snapped his fingers: the messenger rose, hurried over, whispered in God’s Father’s ear, then handed him a scroll. Ay rose.
‘My lords,’ he murmured, ‘we must return to the council chamber.’ A meeting of the Royal Circle had already been planned for the tenth hour; glancing over my shoulder, I beckoned Djarka and Sobeck forward. For once Sobeck was dressed in the linen robes of a courtier. He was always amused at the double life he led, drifting between the Malkata Palace and the grimy back streets of Thebes. Sobeck had proved invaluable to me in relaying the gossip, the chatter, the doings and goings of the various gangs who, during Pharaoh’s absence from Thebes, had grown in power. They’d even launched attacks on the Valley of the Kings in an attempt to rob the royal tombs. In the past few months I had dispensed swift justice. The entrance to the Valley of the Kings was now lined with the corpses of those I had impaled there. Djarka was equally invaluable: olive-skinned and smooth-faced, though his black hair was now greying and he had lost that bubbling merriment. Five years previously he and I had been given no choice but to kill the love of his life and her father, professional assassins sent into the city of Aten to slay the Great Heretic. Both my comrades knew their duty. Djarka carried a heavy Syrian bow and quiver of arrows; Sobeck concealed a long throwing dagger beneath his robes.
‘Take their Royal Highnesses inside,’ I ordered.
Ankhesenamun had pulled herself up; she was glancing narrow-eyed at her grandfather, Ay. Tutankhamun, however, still sat sucking a piece of melon, smiling across the courtyard as if he could see something we couldn’t. As Sobeck and Djarka moved to obey, the mercenaries I had hired from my own people, the Medjay, to the east of Thebes, came out of the shadows of the great carved lions where they had been dozing, enjoying the shade and sharing a wineskin. Sobeck grasped the little prince by the hand and gently pulled him to his feet.
‘Soldier!’ the boy shouted, gesturing with his piece of melon. ‘Soldiers fight!’
Sobeck leaned down and whispered; the little boy laughed, a deep chuckle in his narrow chest.
‘Good, good!’ he shouted, almost throwing himself into Sobeck’s arms.
Ankhesenamun stepped neatly round Djarka, smiled flirtatiously and walked towards me. For a moment she reminded me of her mother, Nefertiti: the same languorous, sensuous yet regal pose, lips parted in a smile, eyes downcast, but when she looked up, I caught her knowing look. She came a little too close. I smelt her fragrance and I could see the line of sweat running down between her breasts. She used the linen shawl to fan herself, turning her head to look at me out of the corner of her eye.
‘Mahu.’ My name came as a whisper, as if we were lovers or conspirators. ‘Mahu, what is the matter?’
‘Your Highness will be informed in due course.’
‘Your Highness will be informed in due course,’ she mimicked, and laughed girlishly, fingers to her face. She snapped open the fan held in her right hand and shook it vigorously before her, those beautiful eyes no longer laughing, but cold and hard. ‘I am not a child, Mahu. I am at least fourteen summers old. I have been a Queen and a mother to a child. I shall be a future Queen and the mother of the heir.’
‘For the moment, Your Highness, you are what you are and I am what I am. You know as much as I do and, I am sure,’ I pushed my face a little closer, ‘that when our meeting is over, God’s Father Ay, your grandfather, will slide into your quarters to share what we are about to learn.’
Ankhesenamun smiled. It was always the same: parry and thrust like two stick fighters, Ankhesenamun flirting, yet beneath that, menacing, acting the innocent, a woman who had slept with her own father and, if my spies were correct, offered similar favours to her grandfather too. A true temple girl, Ankhesenamun! She’d put the best heset to shame! She was dangerous not just because of her beauty but that air of childlike innocence, which masked a heart and wit as cruel as a mongoose. Oh yes, she was Nefertiti’s daughter and Ay’s granddaughter, inheriting every ounce of their cunning.
Ankhesenamun flounced away, fanning herself, shouting out her congratulations to the two stick fighters. She walked so quickly, Djarka almost collided with her, and had to step back, offering profuse apologies. Ankhesenamun just laughed and followed her half-brother through the door. My mercenaries hurried after. They had their orders. Akenhaten’s last written instruction was that I was to be the official and trusted guardian of his baby son. This had also been the wish of Tutankhamun’s mother Khiya, so I had taken an oath which I regarded as doubly sacred. Tutankhamun was never allowed out of my sight or that of Djarka; even the melon he had been sucking had been carefully tested and tasted. I stared around the courtyard. The retainers of the other members of the Royal Circle were emerging from the shadows of the corners, chattering amongst themselves, wondering what news had disturbed the Great Ones. I studied these. Each hyaena leader had his own pack, and I wondered how many of them could be trusted: soldiers of different nationalities, mercenaries, people fleeing from the law in other cities. Some had been fanatically loyal to Akenhaten; I did not trust any of them, yet I dared not act. As Chief of Police I was tempted to advise Ay that an imperial edict should be issued disbanding such retainers in the cause of common peace and harmony. Ay would have loved that! He’d have insisted, whether I was Chief of Police or not, that my scouts, as I called them, should also be banned from the palace precincts.