by Paul Doherty
Maya, ashen-faced, moaned quietly under his breath.
‘What will you do, Mahu?’
‘I have no choice,’ I replied. ‘But I tell you this, Maya. Report to the House of Secrets today and tomorrow but, on the third day, keep well away. Hide yourself against the coming storm.’
‘O you who cut off heads and sever necks.’
(Spell 90: The Book of the Dead)
Chapter 15
‘May you sit on your throne of bronze!
Your forepart being that of a lion,
And your hindpart being that of a falcon.
May you devour the haunch from the
Slaughter-block of Osiris
And entrails from the slaughter-block of Seth.’
I sat back on my heels and stared at Akhenaten. He was enthroned in the centre of the garden, Nefertiti on his right, Ay on his left. Nakhtimin’s guards kept all approaches secure. Akhenaten’s twin daughters played at his feet, their younger sisters were sleeping in the nursery. The girls looked like little worms, heads shaven, bodies naked except for jewelled anklets. They sat facing each other, hands clapping as they cooed and cried.
‘O King,’ I intoned, continuing the formal protocol. ‘Mighty in waking, great in sleeping, for whom sweetness is sweet. Rouse yourself, O King.’
I had asked for this formal audience and invoked the usual liturgical rite by intoning a hymn to the power of the King. Only by doing this did I convey the seriousness of the situation and the dangers which confronted us. I wouldn’t dare raise such matters in the Royal Circle where the advice of friends and allies would be listened to most carefully by sworn enemies and foes.
Akhenaten sat rigid, staring at me; for a moment, fear flared in his eyes. Nefertiti, her hair hanging undressed down to her shoulders, had also shooed away her maids. They had been squatting around her discussing the different perfumes and creams: how terebinth gum, mixed with moringa oil and nutmeg, removed wrinkles, whilst the juice of lotus, pink lily, papyrus and isis, with a dash of myrrh and frankincense, provided the most fragrant perfume. They had been laughing at how a concentration of cow’s blood, gazelle horn and putrefying ass’s liver might halt greying. Akhenaten and Ay had been standing near a Pool of Purity deep in discussion. My entrance had ended all that.
I had knelt on the cushions, pressed my forehead against the ground as Akhenaten returned to his thronelike chair. Nefertiti and Ay had joined him whilst the servants were dismissed. Now all was quiet, the silence broken only by the chatter of the children. Ay sat, agitated, plucking at his lower lip, head slightly turned as if fearful of what I was going to say. I told them all everything, though Sobeck’s name was never mentioned. I talked directly and quickly. Nefertiti hid her mouth behind her hand: Ay’s fingers went to his face. Akhenaten went ashen, eyes blazing with fury. Furrows appeared round his eyes and mouth, a nest of wrinkles, and a vein high in his head bulged and pulsed. When I had finished, he breathed out noisily.
‘Do you not nose the ground before the Lord of the Two Lands, before the living image of the One!’
Down I went, back bent, forehead flat against the ground. Akhenaten rose to his feet, almost pushing his children aside. He walked over to me and I could see his sandals, thonged with gold and silver; an anklet round his left ankle depicted the Sun Disc. He walked past, came back and kicked me viciously in the ribs. I rolled on my side, hand going for one of my daggers. Akhenaten kicked me again, face mottled, froth bubbling at his lips. His eyes seemed like glowing coals. He stood at a half-crouch, hands hanging down, his breathing laboured. He’d wrenched off his head-dress and his robe hung askew. I remember his loincloth being stained at the front, the vein streaks high in his legs. The pain in my stomach and side were intense. For a few seconds, I couldn’t breathe; bile gathered at the back of my throat.
‘I did better than anyone!’ I shouted back, tearing the collar of office from my neck and throwing it at his feet. ‘I am not your dog! Go, ask your ministers why they didn’t know! Where was Ay? Where?’ I scrambled to my knees and pulled myself up, holding my bruised side. ‘Get yourself another dog, Pharaoh. Cut me loose and I’ll run.’
Akhenaten started towards me. The babies were shrieking; Ay remained seated in his chair, petrified by fear. Nefertiti was the one who came between us. Running over, she knelt down and put her soft arm round my neck and pulled my face towards her, pressing herself against me. My nose was full of her perfume. My pain was forgotten as her warm softness seemed to envelop me, her breath hot upon my cheek.
‘Mahu, Mahu,’ she whispered. ‘Haven’t you heard? Sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish between the message and the messenger.’ She turned to her husband, her voice high above the cries of the children. She spoke fiercely, I think it was in Sheshnu. Akhenaten’s eyes still gleamed with madness.
‘Go, Mahu!’ she ordered. ‘Wait outside!’
She pulled me to my feet and pushed me towards the gate out of the enclosed garden. In the courtyard beyond, Nakhtimin and his men, alarmed by the shouting had drawn their swords. I waved them away and slumped against the gate-post nursing my bruised ribs. From the garden rose shouting and screams. Nakhtimin was called in, then he hurried out. I noticed the collar had been pulled from his neck, the side of his face was blood-red. The shouting continued, then there was silence.
At least an hour must have passed before the gate opened. Akhenaten came out, grasped my hand and raised me up. He was calm, his eyes clear, his mouth smiling. In front of the guards he clasped me close and kissed me full on the mouth, on each cheek, finally on the forehead.
‘Don’t leave me, Mahu,’ he murmured hoarsely, ‘because my just rage and divine anger spill out! Come.’
He led me back into the garden. Nefertiti and Ay, all composed, standing hand-in-hand, smiled at me. Akhenaten made me sit in his thronelike chair. He refastened the gold collar round my neck, took the Aten ring off his finger and slipped it on one of mine. Then he patted my shoulder, staring down at me, smiling before squatting on the cushions, gathering his children on his lap.
‘I am sorry, Mahu,’ he said. ‘I truly am.’ He kissed the head of one of his daughters. ‘You are not a dog but my close friend, my brother. But to learn that I am to die within three days?’ He pursed his lips, his strange eyes sad. He kissed his children absentmindedly, stroking their little bodies. I felt embarrassed to be on the throne. Akhenaten’s mood had so profoundly changed.
‘For what you discovered today,’ he continued in a half-whisper, ‘you shall always be Pharaoh’s special friend.’
Nefertiti gripped my right hand, her sensuous fingers thrusting into my palm. Ay took my left hand, clasping it by the wrist. Akhenaten continued cuddling his children, asked a few questions, nodding vigorously at my replies. He dismissed my warnings.
‘I shall go into the Valley of the Shadows.’ He raised a hand, fingers splayed. ‘My Father and I are one. He is with me. All who are against me are against him. You are my Father’s messenger, Mahu. You are part of me as I am part of you. When the Revelation comes, he shall show his face to you and smile on you.’ Akhenaten grew solemn, traces of the anger returning. ‘These assassins will not know peace either in life or after death. You shall protect me, Mahu. You are my Father’s messenger, you shall be with me. You shall be the instrument of our justice and our vengeance.’ He pointed his hand at the sky. ‘My Father will direct me.’ He picked up one of the twins, cuddling her close, turning to kiss her cheek and head. All the time those dark, brooding eyes, unblinking in their gaze, watched me.
‘Kill them, Mahu.’ He leaned forward. ‘Kill them all and send their souls into eternal night.’
Akhenaten was determined to confront the danger, to prove that his Father had not deserted him, but the details of the grand design were left to me. Nefertiti and Ay urged that I tell as few as possible and only let them know what I had to. I became feverishly involved in the preparations. Horemheb, Rameses and Nakhtimin were ordered into the Palace and given t
emporary command of the chariot squadrons of Hathor, Anubis and Horus, troops whom I reckoned to be the most loyal to us in the Egyptian army. Ostensibly they were to engage in manoeuvres, to be despatched North on training exercises. Secretly they were each given confidential instructions about where to gather, at what hour and what signals they should expect. Mercenaries were brought in by night. They, and trusted units of the Imperial Guard, were ordered into full battle-dress, provided with cold rations and water. Late in the evening, before the day of the expected attack, they were moved secretly into the Valley of the Shadows, to remain hidden in the caves, gullies and hollows. Each man was to be instructed that if he left, or betrayed his position, he would face instant execution. Snefru’s comrades were also prepared. They were brusquely informed how Snefru had been sent on a secret errand: they would join him soon, but until then they would be under the direct command of Djarka. I looked at their scarred faces, men who might have served me well. I could not save them. They were tainted and therefore dangerous.
On that fatal day we left in the early hours. I had guessed it was that day: it was inauspicious, but Akhenaten would ignore this and go into the valley whilst the next such day was not for another six weeks, too long for a Libyan war-party to survive on their own in the Eastern Desert. I drove Akhenaten’s chariot; small leather cases at my feet carried his war-kilt and armour. The dark was bitterly cold. The stars pressed down close whilst the yawning desert, cloaked in shadows, appeared sinister in its unspoken threats. We entered the valley in that grey light before day; the stars were dimming, the sky turning a strange colour as the creatures of the night roared their hymns and slunk away from the heat of dawn.
I left Djarka and Snefru’s retinue armed with shield and spear at the mouth of the valley. Djarka had his instructions. Akhenaten and I went ahead. Our horses, the fastest in the royal stables, were snorting and shaking their heads, the gold dyed plumes between their ears nodding in the early morning breeze. We reached the foot of the sheer cliffs at the end of the valley. Akhenaten thrust the fire-making instruments at me. I set fire to the dry brushwood piled on the steps of the makeshift altar, lit the oil lamps and placed the smoking incense bowls on the grey granite altar slab. Akhenaten serenely offered bread and wine to the Sun Disc now rising in glory, a majestic fiery glow. The God emerged from his Underworld, the Glory of Egypt rising to feast on the hideous banquet of death and destruction which would shatter that day. Akhenaten sang his hymn, an awesome sound in that sombre, ghost-filled valley. His voice rang true and strong, echoing up into the skies.
Once the sacrifice was completed I grasped a firebrand and made the signal to either side of the valley. The escarpment became alive with men pouring out of the caves, gullies and hollows. Mercenaries led by handpicked officers from the Nakhtu-aa, all armed with heavy shields, spears, war-clubs and curved swords formed serried ranks facing up the valley, shields locked, spears out, swords in their belts or between their feet. Each rank was separated by a line of archers, quivers full, heavy bows ready. Akhenaten armed himself in a coat of polished leather reinforced with metal scales. The war-crown of Egypt was formally fastened to his head with its gold-green straps. He stood like the God Montu in his chariot, javelins in their pouches, a long curved sword in his hand. I donned my armour and stood beside him in the chariot. I had hardly grasped the reins when further down the valley a conch horn wailed, shattering the silence. Our ranks moved to the murmur of men, the creak of leather, the rattle of weapons then that heart-catching silence which always precedes a battle.
Heart pounding, mouth dry, I watched the trackway. Djarka came racing out of the darkness, following the sliver of sunlight racing across the valley floor. The ranks parted. He came running through, bow slung over his shoulders; his quiver was gone but the war-club in his right hand was thick with gore. He knelt before the chariot.
‘They are here,’ he gasped. ‘More than we thought.’ A dull roar rang through the valley, followed by silence. I looked over the heads of our soldiers, along that valley, now brightening under the rising sun. At first I thought a shadow was spreading towards us; it was a horde of men racing like ants, spears and swords glinting. I glimpsed poles bearing the severed, bloody heads of Snefru’s men. The enemy poured towards us. They were running blind, dazzled by the light of the rising sun; they had not yet realised what lay before them. Behind the horde rose clouds of dust as their officers followed in a squadron of chariots. The war-cries of the Libyans rose, a bloodcurdling shriek echoing along that narrow trackway. ‘Now, Djarka,’ I shouted. ‘The sign!’
Djarka was ready with a new quiver of arrows and a pot of fire he had taken from the altar. He strung one arrow, dipped its point coated in resin into the flame. One, two, three streaks of red flared up into the sky then the horde was upon us. In the face of the dazzling sun, they realised, too late, our strength and preparations. The impetus of their charge could not be checked whilst their own chariots, moving so fast, clinging close to their rear, made any pause for deployment impossible.
The first wave of Libyans impaled themselves on our spears. Those who slipped and fell were quickly clubbed, trampled underfoot as our first rank stepped forward. Orders rang out. Our foot soldiers knelt as the archers, bows strung, poured volley after volley into the air, loosing a death-bearing hail of cruel barbs to wreck bloody damage amongst the massed ranks of the Libyans. The enemy milled about, their chariots withdrawing clumsily to create more space. Our archers loosed more volleys as we slowly advanced, a wall of razor-sharp death pushing the Libyans back. They desperately tried to break through, only to fall back and regroup. They had glimpsed Akhenaten in his chariot. I now displayed, at his order, the great silver fan, carved in half-moon shape, bearing the golden emblem of the Sun Disc. The Libyans tried to bring their archers up but the press was too great. We moved, trampling men beneath us, their bodies gashed with arrow and spear, heads a bloody mess from blows inflicted by our powerful war-clubs. Akhenaten stood like a statue, not even wincing as arrows sang by his head and face. He softly sang a hymn to the Aten. I moved the chariot forward; Nakhtu-aa on either side guarded our flanks, cutting the throats of the wounded. The fighting became intense. The Libyans threw themselves on our ranks, trying to scale the valley sides to outflank us. A few did, inflicting terrible damage. I desperately wondered when Horemheb and Rameses would arrive. The Libyans, clad in animal skins, shaven faces covered in war-paint, now concentrated on Akhenaten. Here and there our line buckled. The enemy captains, aware now of our true strength, searched for a weakness. So far I was not part of the fighting, just guiding the chariot; the horses, becoming increasingly frantic, crossed a carpet of tangled bloody corpses. Djarka, moving just ahead of these, slightly stooped, arrow notched, searched for a target. More and more Libyans appeared on our flanks.
‘Where is Horemheb?’ I screamed.
A group of Libyans came charging down the valley side, desperate to break the Nakhtu-aa. Our archers cut them down. The hideous din of battle filled our world as we hacked, clawed and clubbed. Sometimes it was hard to distinguish between friend and foe as clouds of dust rose, covering us from head to toe in a fine white powder. Once again the Libyans hurled themselves forward. I heard the war-trumpets, braying strongly through the clamour, followed by the thunder of chariots, and new clouds of dust appeared behind the Libyan horde. The Anubis squadrons of war-chariots had finally arrived, each carrying three soldiers. The Libyans were now hemmed in. The battle was won and the massacre began. Streams of blood curled along the valley floor. The Libyans were caught in a trap, a vice slowly closing. They were unable to break through either to the front or the rear. The two valley sides were too steep to scale. Those who tried it stumbled and came rolling down in a cloud of dust and a rain of shale and pebbles. Our men were waiting and cut their throats. We killed and killed until exhausted. I say ‘we’ though I never struck a blow, guiding the chariot whilst Akhenaten loosed javelin after javelin into the dwindling Libyan mass.
At last the enemy threw down their weapons and knelt in the dust, hands stretched out for mercy – but the bloodlust was up. Those who surrendered had their heads pulled back, their throats slashed. Some mercenaries even forced the young Libyans to lie face down against the hard ground to urinate on them and inflict other indignities before they finished them off. At last Akhenaten issued an order and all fighting came to an end. He climbed down from his chariot to receive the plaudits and cheers from his troops. The Libyan captives were hustled forward, no more than two dozen. An avenue was formed leading up to the imperial chariot, its wheels, the blue and gold electrum, coated in drying blood. One Libyan chieftain tried to bargain for his life. Akhenaten shook his head, gripped his war-club and issued an order. Each prisoner was bound, arms behind him, hustled up and made to kneel. Akhenaten grasped his victim’s hair and swung the war-club, cracking skulls, dashing out the victims’ brains as easily as he would shatter a nut. The pile of corpses grew. The valley was silent except for the groans of the prisoners and the sound of Akhenaten’s bone-crunching war-club. He stood, a fearsome figure, spattered with gore, blood swilling in pools around his ankles. At last all the prisoners were dead. Then Akhenaten lifted the war-club like a priest would an Asperges rod.
‘Aten is glorious!’ he screamed. ‘Our victory is his!’
His voice echoed round the valley like a peal of thunder: again and again he repeated it. His troops replied, going down on their knees, roaring the paean of praise.
‘Aten is glorious! Our victory is his!’
Chest heaving, face stained with blood, Akhenaten finally climbed back in the chariot. I gathered the reins as his commanders clustered round. My master congratulated and thanked them.
