‘Physician, heal thyself. You are drinking too much.’
‘I do heal myself!’ he quipped back. ‘The wine makes me forget the past, Mahu. It drives away the ghosts which cluster in the corners. My wife, my children, my kinsmen, Princess Khiya.’ He bit his lip.
‘And the Prince?’ I asked.
Pentju stared back into the chamber. We were sitting on a balcony, a place I loved to dine; it was closely guarded against eavesdroppers.
‘Is the Prince sick?’ I asked.
‘No more so than his father.’ Pentju sipped at his wine. ‘His limbs ache and he has inherited his father’s condition. As he matures,’ Pentju gestured with his hands, ‘his shoulders will grow broader, but so will his hips. He’ll have a protuberant belly and the same chest as his father; his hands, fingers and toes will be longer than the average man’s.’
‘Like his father?’ I interrupted.
‘Like his father,’ Pentju agreed, ‘but not as pronounced or marked.’
‘And his moods?’
Pentju laughed quietly. ‘Mahu, I can tell you, as I’ve said before, how the heart beats, what causes a worm in the intestine or the symptoms of some disease. But a man’s soul? Even harder, a child’s! He is the son of Khiya; he has inherited her gentleness. He’s also Akenhaten’s son.’ He picked up a piece of firm cheese made from pressed, salted curds and sniffed at it. ‘Very tasty,’ he mused. He cut a slice.
‘He is his father’s son?’ I insisted.
‘Ever the policeman …’ Pentju sighed. ‘Always the question. Yes, he is Akenhaten’s son. He suffers what my learned colleagues would call rushes of blood, and changes of mood, when he can become violent. As he grows older he may even suffer from fits, the falling sickness.’
‘Could he beget an heir?’
‘The boy is only eight.’ Pentju grimaced. ‘His penis, his manhood are a matter for the future. I don’t see why he shouldn’t.’
‘Could he ever,’ I demanded, ‘be like his father?’
‘No one else could be like Akenhaten.’ Pentju laughed softly. ‘A great deal depends on the next few years. It is time he returned to Thebes; he must forget everything there is about the Aten.’
‘And Ankhesenamun?’ I asked.
‘Ah, there’s a game you’ve lost, Mahu.’ The physician leaned across the table, cleaning his teeth with his tongue. ‘As the boy grows older, her influence will grow. There’s nothing you can do about that, except, perhaps, kill Ankhesenamun!’
I often wonder now: should I have listened more carefully to Pentju’s diagnosis? What would have happened if Ankhesenamun had died and Tutankhamun married another? Yet she was protected by the brooding shadow of her grandfather and others of the Akhmin gang. Ankhesenamun was certainly mischievous enough for anything. She’d taken Mert under her wing, and that young woman had emerged as an exquisite beauty. Ankhesenamun and Amedeta, being the sly bitches they were, soon realised Djarka’s interest in this lovely young woman. They refused her nothing, often braiding her black hair in a net of multi-coloured glasswork bordered by half-circles of pearls. Gold anklets and bracelets shimmered on Mert’s legs and wrists; a gorgeous gorget of cornelian emphasised her neck; her beautiful body was adorned in the purest linen robes; a purple-fringed shawl hung about her shoulders and silver-thonged sandals were on her feet. They taught her how to paint her face, using green kohl to accentuate her eyes, and gave her presents of the costliest perfumes. They would often invite us to supper, where those two minxes would sit and watch as Djarka and I competed for Mert’s attention. In the end the contest was unequal. Mert remained silent but she could talk with her eyes. Djarka was the chosen one. In the weeks leading up to the military expeditions they grew closer. Djarka coaxed her to speak. I often found them chatting in their own tongue, though never once would she describe what had happened in the Valley of the Grey Dawn. Instead she would simply fall silent, shaking her head, withdrawing into her own private nightmares.
‘Is there nothing else she can tell us?’ I asked.
Djarka swore solemnly that she could not. ‘She remembers her life before the massacre, and what happened afterwards, but if I question her,’ he shrugged, ‘she knows nothing; her eyes go vacant. She remembers her father and her brothers going out to the valley. They took her with them; they were to act as guides and be heavily rewarded.’
‘Guides to where?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Djarka confessed. ‘She remembers her journey out; after that, what she calls the blackness falls.’
In the end I had to let such matters rest.
On the day before we left, Nebamun and Djarka made one final attempt to change my mind. I refused. I did not inform them about my most recent letter from the Lord Ay. I kept that to myself. Ay had couched his request in courteous terms, yet he made it very clear that he disapproved of my expedition. Moreover, he added, if I thought the situation dangerous, I should immediately withdraw the Royal Household to Thebes. I dispatched a courier back saying the crisis had passed and I would consider his request.
On the morning of the eighth day in the second month of Peret, our expedition left the City of the Aten: forty chariots, a train of carts and a corps of three hundred mercenaries. Djarka and Mert were also included, as were the three sand-dwellers, now confident that they basked in high favour. They were well fed, and plump after their long stay as guests in the palace. The journey proved to be a nightmare. The further east we travelled, the more desolate and arid the Red Lands became. The heat turned oppressive. Sand storms blasted us during the day; freezing blackness cloaked us at night. Bands of marauders hung on our flanks ready to exploit any weakness. At times we had to hunt for fresh meat, and on one occasion we clashed with these fierce nomads. During the day we moved like a military convoy; at night we formed the carts and chariots into a protective ring. I had thought the journey would take three weeks in all, following a circuitous route which led from one oasis to another. In the end it took a month. I knew we were approaching the valley when the undulating desert began to peter out; through the shifting heat haze I glimpsed gorse, dry trees and rocky outcrops. The shrubs and trees led towards the oasis at the entrance to the Valley of the Grey Dawn. An eerie place, its rocks and cliffs seemed to sprout from the desert floor, shifting in colour, a dull grey at dawn, a fiery red in the full heat of the day, becoming paler as the day wore on.
We approached the oasis lying just within the valley mouth as the sun, that fiery burst of colour, the tormentor of our days, slipped beneath the far horizon. The darkness spread its wings to be greeted by the raucous cries of the night prowlers. The Red Lands had always oppressed me; that fearsome valley was a nightmare: its rocky cliffs rose out of the sands, whirling clouds of dust covered desiccated bushes, gorse and dried-out trees, casting them black against the sky. The ground grew hard underfoot, easier for our carts and chariots. The tree-fringed oasis was a pleasant contrast, shimmering green with its long grass, fresh bushes and groves of sturdy palm trees. The source of all this freshness was an underground spring. The smell of fresh water and wild flowers was as welcome to us as the most fragrant perfume.
We camped for the night. Carts and chariots were pulled into a ring, horse lines protected by rows of small fires to drive back the predators which circled the oasis from dusk till dawn. Even as we arrived and set up our tents and pavilions, we discovered fearsome signs of the massacre: bones, skulls, entire skeletons, arrowheads, javelin points, a broken dagger and small pieces of chewed leather. Everywhere we looked, beneath bushes, in the shade of the trees or the rocky outcrop around the pools, such remains reminded us we were in a place of ghosts where spirits burned and the dead flamed in a darkness beyond ours. Mert was subdued. She clung to Djarka, muttering under her breath. Beyond the perimeters of our camp echoed the ugly coughing roars of lions and the heart-chilling growl of hyaenas.