‘Your Majesty?’ I asked.
Akhenaten’s face was still suffused with anger; a line of spittle ran down his chin, his protuberant chest was heaving as if he had run a great distance; his white robes were sweat-soaked. He leaned forward, smacking my shoulder with the flail. He didn’t speak until Nefertiti fell silent, more out of exhaustion than anything else.
‘The Lady Nefertiti has used contumacious words.’ Akhenaten’s voice rang hollow. ‘She has dared to threaten the Crown Prince. She is to be banished to her apartments in the Northern Palace. She will not look on my face again. Mahu, carry out my will!’
I rose and walked towards Nefertiti, hands extended. In that hour she had aged. Her face-paint was patchy and running with the tears and sweat. One earring had come loose and, in her temper, she had torn the silver and golden collar from round her neck and it lay scattered at her feet.
‘My lady,’ I whispered, ‘we must leave.’
Nefertiti made to object.
‘Call the guards!’ Akhenaten shouted.
Nefertiti gave a long sigh, body quivering. I thought she was choking then her body went slack. She stood, head down, shoulders stooped, hands folded across her stomach. Then she summoned up her dignity and walked towards the door. She made to turn but I caught her by the elbow.
‘My lady,’ I whispered, ‘it’s useless.’
Akhenaten must have known what was going to happen. Outside swarmed a horde of Libyan mercenaries, handpicked men and officers. They immediately formed a ring round us. We walked through the corridors, across courtyards and gardens, following the King’s Road up towards the Northern Palace. It’s remarkable how the news of someone’s fall can spread as quickly as the wind. Frightened servants darted away. Courtiers and officials suddenly found something more interesting and disappeared from sight. Visitors and petitioners, guards, officers, scribes and priests melted away at the tramp of the mercenaries’ feet. We swept up the broad avenue into the precincts of the Northern Palace. Akhenaten’s decision had been planned. More guards were waiting, whilst in the royal quarters huddled frightened-looking maids and ladies-in-waiting ready to attend on their mistress. Nefertiti’s quarters were very similar to the small Palace of the Aten where Akhenaten had grown up on the outskirts of the Malkata Palace: a central courtyard ringed by buildings and beyond that a walled garden. Soldiers in full battle gear guarded each gate, door and approach. We were treated with every dignity and courtesy. The kitchens were already preparing food. Nefertiti now stopped and gazed sadly round.
‘Mahu, this is no surprise,’ she murmured. ‘It’s like going back in time. This is my new home, isn’t it?’
We passed through the small audience hall beyond which lay her private chambers. At the entrance to the bedchamber Nefertiti dismissed the gaggle of ladies-in-waiting as well as the burly thickset Captain of the Guard who had followed us up.
‘You,’ she pointed at him, ‘you can withdraw.’
He made to protest. ‘You shall withdraw,’ her voice rose, ‘and only approach my presence at my command. My daughters?’
‘Your Majesty,’ the Captain replied, ‘your daughters will be allowed to visit you whenever you wish. But as for withdrawing …’
‘Do as Her Majesty commands,’ I ordered, winking quickly at the man. He bowed and marched away. Nefertiti, plucking at my robe, gestured at me to follow. I did so, closing the door behind me, and leaned against it. She went across and sat on the edge of a small divan. For a while she just sat, face in hands, weeping quietly. I crossed to the table and poured out wine, specially chilled, and brought it across. She snatched it from my hands and drank greedily. I made to go but she called me back, throwing cushions at her feet for me to sit. She lifted her face, pale and drawn, but her eyes were still as beautiful, made even more so from their tears.
‘Mahu, did you know?’
‘Mistress.’ I shook my head. ‘By all that is holy, I knew nothing. I didn’t notice her.’
Nefertiti handed the wine-cup back to me. She sat running a finger along a plucked eyebrow. ‘I didn’t notice she was missing, Mahu. I even thought she had been sent back to Thebes. Where was she kept?’
‘She had her own small palace,’ I replied. ‘Madam, didn’t you know what was coming?’
‘Yes and no,’ she replied wearily. ‘After the birth of our last daughter, the Beloved no longer approached my bedchamber. He grew cold and distant. He would often ask me about my days in Akhmin. My relationship with my father.’
‘And?’ I dared to ask.
‘I tell you what I told him. My past is my past and so is his. Sometimes he would speak sharply to me. He would remind me that he was the son of the Aten. No, that’s wrong! You know the truth, don’t you, Mahu? My own father has told me often enough. Akhenaten believes he is the Aten himself. He is the God Incarnate, the Possessor of all Wisdom. He came to resent my very presence.’
I sat on those cushions in that beautiful, opulent chamber with its ivory-inlaid caskets, exquisite bed shrouded in white linen and delicate furniture. The walls were painted with the most pleasing scenes, made fragrant with flower baskets and pots of perfume. I realised then why Ay had whistled up the Sekhmets, why Horemheb and Rameses were so worried. The City of the Aten, my master’s dream, were teetering on the brink of ruin. Nefertiti, as if speaking to herself, recited a litany of grievances. I kept silent. I did not question her about the potions she had given Khiya, nor did I dream of mentioning Pentju’s name, though I suspected what had happened. At last, overcome by the effects of the wine and her own nervous exhaustion, Nefertiti lay down on the divan, pulled a cushion beneath her lovely tear-streaked cheeks, and fell asleep.
For a while I just knelt and studied that exquisite face framed by its glorious red hair. Then, leaning closer, I kissed her gently on the half-open lips still sweet with the taste of wine. I rose to my feet and walked to the door.
‘Mahu,’ she called out. I didn’t turn but paused, my hand on the latch. ‘I made a mistake, betrayed by my own pride and arrogance.’
I opened the door and left. I made my way to the mansion of the Lady Khiya, a palatial residence in its own grounds surrounded by a high-bricked wall. The gates were heavily guarded. My presence there was questioned by mercenary officers who treated me more as an enemy than someone they knew. However, I was persistent. At last I was ushered through. Pentju, grey-faced and hollow-eyed, met me in the garden. I told him what had happened. He smiled and nodded in satisfaction. When I struck him in the face, he didn’t object or call for the guard, but clambered slowly to his feet, wiping the blood from his nose, laughing quietly to himself. I struck him again, even as I could hear the hymn of lamentation from the house as Khiya’s body was being prepared for burial in one of the tombs in the eastern cliffs.
‘Will you hit me again?’ Pentju nursed the side of his face. ‘Or is it a case of doctor heal thyself?’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Why not?’ Pentju’s sly eyes creased in a smile. ‘Why not, Mahu? To be treated like a dog in front of the court! My arse exposed like some naughty schoolboy! To receive no apology! To be banished! The same for Khiya. She became pregnant about eighteen months ago but the baby was premature.’