‘So what do you propose?’
Sobeck paused, as if listening to a bird fluttering in the tree.
‘I intend to kill the old man.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I have no choice. He will die peacefully in his sleep and I will hand his corpse over to be embalmed.’
Sobeck walked back to the pavilion.
‘Best be warned.’ He raised his voice. ‘The hunters are out.’
The months turned into seasons, the seasons into years. Six years passed. I grew a little plumper. Djarka and Mert had another child, a girl they called Miriam, a companion for her elder brother Imhotep. Djarka now led his own life. He came and went as he pleased. We very rarely discussed the glory days when we had plotted, conspired and fought, either on the battlefield or amongst that brood of conspirators at the imperial court. Djarka seemed infatuated with his wife and children. A husband and father first, rather than a soldier. We grew apart, like the gap that divides a father from his son when the latter moves away to be with his own family. I was still deeply attracted to Mert, but she had eyes only for her husband. It was a true love match. Oh, we reminisced and, when the wine flowed like water, became nostalgic. Djarka warned me not to discuss what had happened in the Valley of the Grey Dawn, and when Mert was present, Lord Ay’s name was never to be mentioned. Their two children were beautiful and delightful. I made up nicknames for them, ‘balls of fluff’, or ‘pots of sweet honey’. If I became bored with my garden, writing in my journal or Pentju’s drunken mutterings, I’d always go looking for them. I did so reluctantly at first, not because I didn’t like children, but because I felt unclean in their presence. I had blood on my hands. I had killed and killed again. I felt like a jackal put in charge of baby ducks. When I described my feelings to Djarka, his face broke into a smile and he punched me playfully on the shoulder.
‘More like a guard dog,’ he replied.
I felt better after that. Perhaps it was the children’s innocence which frightened me. Somehow or other they might recognise a soul which reeked of sin. They didn’t. They enjoyed my games, especially when I pretended to be a lion. I discovered I had a gift for woodwork and would love to carve a giraffe or antelope or fashion a wooden sword or shield. Imhotep, as he grew older, would often seek me out; even when I was squatting like a scribe, he nestled close to me. He regarded me as a great warrior. I was touched and flattered, for this was how Djarka described me. Ah well, it was better that than being called an assassin.
Sobeck’s lovely wife gave birth to twin boys. She too visited our mansion, bringing the children together with an army of wet nurses and servants. I grew to enjoy the long evenings, the feasting and the chatter. Sobeck now heeded my warnings, and did everything he could to pose as Ay’s faithful retainer.
‘There’s nothing like children,’ he once remarked, ‘to make you prudent and careful.’
He also brought news of how the restoration of Egypt’s fortune was growing apace. Nowhere more than Thebes, where new buildings of marble and white granite dazzled the eye. Rivers of treasure flowed in from north, south, east and west. Egypt’s enemies, the people of the Nine Bows trembled, frightened of Egypt’s powerful regiments and teeming squadrons of war chariots. Imperial war barges patrolled the Nile and the shores of the Delta, high-beaked and powerful, crammed with archers and spearmen. They fought off pirates and invaders from the Great Green. I often glimpsed such barges from my rooftop, patrolling the river, standards displayed, great sails billowing out.
People exclaimed how the marvellous days of Amenhotep the Magnificent had returned. Envoys from other nations, even the long-haired Hittites, hastened to pay lip service at least to the Great House, the Palace of a Million Years.
Such reports never disturbed me. I mellowed and remained patient, like a man lost in a dream. I seduced the maids. When I wished to be alone, I put on a broad-brimmed peasant’s hat and tended my gardens. I grew rather bored with flowers and cultivated new types of vegetables and herbs, including an original onion. I became expert in growing capers, not so fleshy but still rich in oil. I wrote a learned paper on this and sent it by way of Sobeck to the House of Life at the Temple of Horus. It was well received. I also specialised in poisons, mixing the juice of ivy with fat berries and other ingredients. My strain was virtually tasteless, or so Pentju told me. He examined it carefully whilst I hopped from foot to foot. Sometimes my physician friend was so drunk, he’d eat or sip anything placed before him.
Pentju showed little interest in Sobeck’s visits, except on one matter. At first I thought he was keen to learn news about Canaan when he remained sober and questioned Sobeck carefully. After a while, I realised he was more interested in the doings of the House of Envoys, which controlled Egypt’s foreign affairs. The generals’ desire for war had been constantly frustrated, even though everybody was becoming alarmed at the growing power of the Hittites. Lord Ay, supported by Maya and Huy, had developed a different policy: they turned to the other great powers, particularly the Mitanni, to check the Hittites. Pentju became more alert than ever over this and questioned Sobeck about Ay’s furious attempts to win over Tushratta, King of the Mitanni.
‘Ay has done everything in his power,’ Sobeck reported on one occasion. ‘He sends envoys to the Mitanni with costly gifts: kites of gold and silver to raise mercenaries.’
Once Pentju’s questions were answered, he would go back to his drinking. He had grown obese and red-faced, and more often than not he was drunk. He could still be a skilled physician and a witty companion, but he insisted on sleeping the day away and drinking through the night. He confided in me that when darkness fell, the ‘demon thieves’ sprang out of the darkness and plagued his soul.
‘They wait for me,’ he whispered, tapping his fleshy nose. ‘I see them lurking in the cypress groves with the fires of hell burning all around.’
Djarka lost patience with him and declared he was mad. I believe he was as sane as any of us. Like me, he was plagued by ghosts from the past, and not all such ghosts are easily exorcised.
Shta-i
(Ancient Egyptian for ‘the Secret Place’)
Chapter 19
In the first week of the month of Thoth — the eighth year of Tutankhamun, Lord of the Two Lands, Mighty Bull, Most Fitting of Forms, Horus in the South, Horemheb and Rameses visited me. I truly thought I would never see this precious pair again. Yet they came swaggering through the main gates, splendid in their robes, all agleam with their medallions, collars, brooches and rings. Outside the gate their staff officers unhitched their chariots, chattering and laughing as they led them off into the green coolness of a palm grove. Horemheb looked a little plumper, a roll of fat beneath his black button eyes, slightly jowly, though his body was still hard and muscular. Rameses was more wrinkled but lean as ever, eyes full of malice, that smirk on his thin lips; he still reminded me of a vicious greyhound. They were pleasant enough, clasping my hands, ordering a servant forward with gifts, joking with Pentju and Djarka. Rameses mischievously asked whether Sobeck, my ‘constant visitor’, was present.
I just smiled.
‘You haven’t come about my health,’ I suggested. ‘So you have come to plot.’
They did not disagree. We met behind closed doors in the Blue Lotus Pavilion. After a few pleasantries Rameses threw down his whisk. I was highly amused by it. The whisk was sky blue, with a golden lotus on the handle; more suitable for a lady of the court rather than a high-ranking officer of the Imperial Staff.
‘Are you enjoying retirement, Mahu?’ he sneered.
‘You mean my exile?’