Once the coronation ceremony was over, we left the temple, proceeding in triumph through Thebes so Pharaoh could show his face to his people. It was a glorious scene: marching troops, rattling chariotry, the air thick with incense and perfume.
By late afternoon, the Ceremony of Procession was over and the great feasting began in the Malkata Palace. I was looking for my own place on the royal dais when I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned. General Nakhtimin stood, smiling slyly, ringed by a group of officers.
‘My lord Mahu,’ he intoned, ‘you are under arrest.’
I let them escort me from the hall, down the steps and back to my own quarters, and that, I suppose, was the end of my days as the Prince’s guardian. The following morning I was summoned to a meeting of the Royal Circle. I was made to stand as if I was a prisoner of war while Lord Ay, acting as Pharaoh’s First Minister, listed the charges against me: my dereliction of duty in the City of the Aten; my endangering the Prince; my foolish escapade (as he put it) in going out into the eastern desert; the uprising; my failure to protect the Princess Ankhesenamun.
The charges were a list of vague, empty words. I looked around for support. Horemheb and Rameses avoided my glance. Huy and Maya squatted on their cushions, heads down. In the end my sentence was house arrest in a stately mansion on a road outside Thebes. Pentju, also included in the charges, was declared officially disgraced. The house three miles north of Thebes, was very similar to the one in which I am now detained, with outhouses and gardens, its high circumference wall closely guarded by Nakhtimin’s troops. Pentju accepted his fate with resignation, joking how we would settle down like an old married couple. I was given a few servants and allowed to pick ten of my mercenaries to join me. I asked for volunteers and the lovely lads responded. We were taken to the mansion and given instructions not to leave under sentence of death or banishment.
Pentju and I divided the house, each taking our own quarters. Neither of us complained. In my heart I knew that it was neither the time nor the place. Sometimes Pentju would ask me why it had happened. I would respond with the same question. During the first few months possible answers dominated my thoughts. I eventually reached the simple and stark conclusion that I was no longer needed. My post as Chief of Police was taken over by Sobeck, who often visited me. There was no malice or recriminations. Sobeck had prospered. He’d put on weight; I often teased him about his paunch and rather heavy jowls. We’d sit in my garden under a sycamore tree, sipping at wine and reminiscing about our exploits in the Hittite camp. Sobeck was a good choice as Chief of Police: as a former outlaw, he knew every trick and turn of those he pursued. He would bring me news of Thebes and Egypt. How Horemheb and Rameses were now in charge of all garrisons north of Memphis, busy fortifying Egypt’s defences, raising new troops and building up chariot squadrons. Horemheb was planning the great day when Egyptian forces would cross the Sinai and invade Canaan. There was little reference to the City of the Aten; it was allowed to die. After the uprising it was abandoned, its palaces and temples, colonnaded walks, avenues and parks given back to the desert. The wells scaled over, the canals dried up; within two years it became the haunt of beggars and outlaws.
Sobeck often asked me why I accepted my fate with such resignation. But what else could I do? When the Prince was taken from my care I was tired of the struggle, the bloodshed and the violence. I wanted peace, a time to shelter and reflect. My life, like water running down a rock, had abruptly taken a different course. Horemheb and Rameses came visiting. They were intrigued by my adventures and often questioned me about the last days of Akenhaten. As the months passed, their visits became less frequent, but when they did come they would always bring gifts, assurances of friendship, and the conversation would always turn to the people of Aten and the tribes of the Apiru.
Djarka and Mert joined me, declaring that they preferred self-imposed exile to a stay at the court. The mansion had many chambers and a spacious enough garden for at least three households. They married, and within months Mert was pregnant. Djarka returned to his old role of being my adviser. He told me to tell Horemheb and Rameses as little as possible, whilst warning me against Lord Ay’s spies in my household. Sobeck was the most regular visitor. He brought me news of the court, the chatter and gossip, mere chaff in the wind. I would ask about the young Pharaoh, the only person I really cared for. According to Sobeck, Tutankhamun was seen very little and kept in the shadows. Indeed, Lord Ay and his granddaughter Ankhesenamun appeared to be the real rulers of Egypt. I informed Sobeck about my expedition into the Red Lands, that strange cave and its dangerous paintings. I also showed him the documents I had found beside Tutu’s pathetic remains. He was particularly interested in Tutu’s drawing of the old man surrounded by leaves. He studied this for a long time before bursting into laughter.
‘What is it?’ I asked crossly.
At first Sobeck wouldn’t answer.
‘What is it?’ I demanded
Sobeck handed back the papyrus.
‘Look at it Mahu, what do you see?’
‘An old man’s head surrounded by leaves,’ I replied. ‘What else?’
‘No, Mahu, look at the centre, keep staring at the centre and you will see another picture emerge. It’s a common device used by artists, a joke, a way of conveying a secret message.’
I stared at the drawing, but could see nothing. Sobeck was most insistent. He asked me to place it on the ground and study it very carefully. I did so, and gasped in astonishment as a different drawing emerged. It was of a couple kissing, and it was easy to recognise the sharp features of Ay and the gorgeous face of his daughter Nefertiti, hair piled high upon her head.
‘A drawing within a drawing,’ I exclaimed. ‘But it’s scandalous.’
‘Is it?’ I glanced up: Sobeck was no longer smiling.
‘You’ve heard the rumours, Mahu? That Ay and Nefertiti were lovers?’
‘Father and daughter!’ I exclaimed.
‘Father and daughter,’ Sobeck agreed. ‘Rumours claim Ankhesenamun is not Akenhaten’s daughter, but her grandfather’s.’
‘Preposterous …!’
‘Mahu, I am Chief of Police. I have drawn my own information from palace servants, who listen through half-opened doorways, or peer from windows. There is even gossip that Akenhaten’s rift with his beautiful Queen first began because of his suspicions about the true relationship between Nefertiti and her father. I can produce a maid, a laundry woman, who babbled about Lord Ay being in bed not only with his granddaughter but with her lady in waiting. Lord Ay truly believes he’s the master of everyone around him.’
‘Could he, would he,’ I asked, ‘harm the young Pharaoh, have him removed; take over the flail and the rod?’
Sobeck shook his head. ‘To do that would cause civil war. Ay has the support of Huy and Maya only as First Minister, not as Pharaoh, whilst in the north Horemheb and Rameses keep a very, very close eye on him.’
The more Sobeck talked, the more I reflected on Ay, and the more dangerous he became. Did he want to be Pharaoh, ruler of Egypt, and was simply waiting for his opportunity? Sobeck brought me news of how Nakhtimin was building up his own army, placing it in garrisons up and down the Nile, even beyond the Third Cataract. Ay was certainly flexing his muscles. In the second year of my exile he dispatched Nakhtimin with Lord Huy into Nubia to crush an incipient rebellion and bring that prosperous province firmly under Egypt’s heel. The army won an outstanding success. Even from my garden I heard the crowds going along the path beside the river, eager to reach Thebes and welcome the victorious troops. Huy brought back carts and barges laden with booty: ostrich plumes, gold, silver, jewellery, as well as many captives and hostages.