‘What’s the matter?’ Djarka asked.
‘I have the face of a monkey,’ I replied, ‘but worse still, Sobeck’s eyes.’
‘It’s the effects of the plague,’ Djarka countered. ‘By spring you will be well again.’
Only then did he tell me the extent of the devastation. Great Queen Tiye, Princess Meketaten as well as Akhenaten’s two youngest daughters, not to mention scores of notables, scribes and priests had been swept away. Pentju was safe, so was the young Crown Prince, locked away in strict isolation. Horemheb and Rameses had fled out into the Red Lands. Ay, Maya and Huy had followed suit.
‘Karnak’s also dead!’
I put my face in my hands.
‘He ate …’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I whispered. ‘Let it go! Meryre?’
‘The demons look after their own master, still full of pomp and pus.’
‘And Akhenaten?’
‘Alive but a hermit.’
I glanced down, my hands were shaking. Djarka crouched before me.
‘You often spoke about her, Master — Great Queen Nefertiti! You cried out for her in the night!’
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘She survived, a prisoner of the Northern Palace. But, come, I must show you the city.’
Djarka brought a chariot from the imperial stables. The day was dismal and overcast. A cold breeze sent the dry leaves whirling, and he made me wear a cloak as he drove me into the city. Its streets and avenues were deserted. Houses had been boarded up. The Wadjet Eye had been daubed on walls. The desiccated corpses of rats, crows and bats were still nailed to the doors of houses where families had died. Smoke from countless pyres, built at crossroads and corners to fumigate the air, curled like snakes to sting one’s nostrils and throat. Carts, pulled by oxen, heavily laden with putrefying corpses, made their way out up to the rim of the eastern cliffs where fierce fires raged, burning the dead. Black plumes rose against the distant sky before being scattered by the breeze from the Nile. Markets were closed, only a few shops did business. Men and women, dressed like Desert Wanderers, hurried by, cloths hiding their heads, mouths and nostrils. Mercenaries, armed and ready, squatted or lounged, their very presence imposing a deathly stillness.
‘A city of the dead,’ Djarka murmured. ‘At the height of the plague, Master, it seemed as if these were more like the streets of the Underworld. Dead piled outside doorways, scavengers and looters busy. Fires burning as if the earth had turned to flame.’
‘Who kept order?’ I asked.
‘Ay, Horemheb and Rameses. They imposed martial law. The physicians say the plague is over but people are drifting away.’
We approached the great Temple of the Aten. A side gate creaked in the wind. Priests stood about in small groups. A dour spirit now possessed this place. There were no pilgrims, no smell of incense came from the sacrificial fires. The gardens which fringed the avenue leading up to the temple were choked with weeds and badly tended.
‘Look at the graffiti,’ Djarka urged. He reined in the horses and we got down. The lampoonists had been busy with caricatures of Akhenaten. These self-appointed artists missed no details of the King’s physique: the strange, elongated head, bulbous slitted eyes, narrow chin, heavy lips and swollen stomach. In these pictures, however, the King had no grace or beauty; he was depicted as feckless, a drunkard, bleary-eyed and badly in need of the attention of the royal dresser. Other pictures represented the world turned upside down. One showed a harsh-faced cat standing erect, clutching a shepherd’s hook, herding a flock of birds. Another depicted a hippopotamus perched in a tree, a servant in the shape of a crow ready to tend to him. A third showed a small boy before a court of justice. The policeman was a cat whilst the judge, garbed in his insignia of office, was a large mouse with protuberant chest and stomach, slitted eyes and a narrow elongated face. Next to this painting an army of mice stormed a fortress, defended by starving cats drawn very cleverly with the features of Akhenaten, Nefertiti and others of the royal court.
We climbed back into the chariot and Djarka drove me home along those same smoke-filled, sombre streets. I must have been noticed for three days later I received a summons from the Royal Palace. As Djarka escorted me along its deserted corridors, the only people we glimpsed were mercenaries and household troops. The Chamberlain who accompanied us whispered how this was the Divine One’s wish.
‘He has dismissed all his servants,’ the fellow confided, ‘for he trusts none of us.’
Guards at the entrance to the Throne Room searched me and Djarka. He was told to wait as the door was opened. I was almost pushed into the dark, sour-smelling room lit only by a few oil lamps and the rays of a weak sun pouring through the high oblong windows. I’ll never forget what I saw. Most of the chamber was in darkness. The only light seemed to be around the throne where Akhenaten slouched naked except for a loincloth and a pectoral of dazzling fire around his neck. A girlish voice told me to approach. I did so and stood before the throne, too shocked to make the obeisance. Akhenaten’s head was shaven; the lower part of his face was covered in stubble, his eyes hollow and sunken peered at me like fluttering oil lamps. Ankhespaaten was sitting in his lap feeding him from a cherry bowl whilst on a cushioned chair to his right his eldest daughter Meritaten lounged, cradling a wine-cup. Both rose as I entered. They were pregnant, their bellies and breasts swollen. Dressed like hesets in diaphanous kilts above loincloths, embroidered shawls about their shoulders, they glittered in a glow of jewellery, necklaces and bangles which rattled at their every movement like the sistra of the dancing girls. Recalling myself, I knelt on the cushions. As I did so, I glimpsed the nails of Akhenaten’s fingers and toes; they were unusually long and dirt-filled, and his body sweat was powerful.
At first Akhenaten seemed to be unaware of my arrival. When I glanced up, he stared back in puzzlement. His two daughters sidled up on either side. Meritaten shyly tried to pluck the shawl closer about her. Ankhespaaten was brazen, making no attempt to hide her condition or the beauty of her young body. She stood slightly forward, resting against the throne, her right arm along its top, fingers ready to caress her father’s head. In her left hand was a deep-bowled cup of wine which she offered to her father. Akhenaten’s hand shook as he took it. He gulped noisily and belched. Meritaten kept her head down, the heavy braids of her perfumed wig half-concealing her face. Ankhespaaten, however, smiled boldly, even flirtatiously. Akhenaten moved on the throne.
‘They have all gone, Mahu.’
‘Who have, Your Majesty?’
Akhenaten’s eyes were vague, his mouth slack, lips wet with wine. He slurped from the wine-bowl again.
‘The spirit is gone. My Father has hidden his face. So many dead.’ He put the wine-cup down, hands going out to caress the swollen stomachs of his daughters.
‘The Beautiful One has gone but my seed still fertilises. I will people the earth with my own seed but they still bother me, Ay and the rest. Reports about this, reports about that.’ He blinked. ‘I thought you had gone, Mahu. I thought you were dead.’
‘I was ill, Your Majesty.’
‘How beautiful,’ Akhenaten chanted, sitting back on his throne. ‘How beautiful are your rays.’ He blew his nose on his fingers and stamped his foot.
‘What do you advise, Baboon of the South?’
‘Advise, Your Majesty? Why, clear the streets. Have them and the gardens purified. Order the merchants back. Open the markets, show your face.’
‘And?’
‘Bring back your true Queen.’
‘Oh, she’s back.’ Akhenaten swayed drunkenly and tapped the side of his head. ‘She is still here.’
‘My father will rule.’ Ankhespaaten spoke up fiercely, her eyes bright with anger. ‘Our line, this seed, his glory will carry us forward to new times.’
For a moment, though her hair was black as night, her kohl-ringed eyes dark pools, the soul of Nefertiti glowed in that girl-woman, impregnated by her own father. She was ruthlessly determined to defend his and her own interests.