The growing wealth of Thebes had brought in peasants, traders and labourers from outlying villages. They’d built their ramshackle houses on every plot of land. Some were successful, most were not and so drowned their sorrows in cups of cheap brandy. Everyone, however, was busy. Women in soiled smocks squatted at dark doorways, grinding their precious portions of corn between pestle and stone. Along the street their children hunted and fought over the dung of livestock, which they would dry to use as fuel and so turn the air foul with its acrid smell. Further up we passed the traders’ stalls, displaying jewellery from Canaan, leatherwork from Libya, oil and embroideries from Babylon. Confectioners were busy driving away the flies, whilst offering preserved dates, syrups, and pastries made of honey and spices. Nearby, their apprentices pounded almonds and nuts in a mortar to make delicious brews. Butchers, their stall flowing with blood, hacked at the quarters of geese and oxen, as little boys and girls, naked as they were born, ran around with flywhisks to drive off the insects. Shoemakers offered everything from delicate slippers to marching boots. Customers with pouches of electrum, gold and silver queued in front of the goldsmiths.
After the silence of my mansion, I revelled in the noise and changing colours of the sea of people milling about. The shouts and screams, the conflicting aromas of fresh blood, cooking meats and drying leather mingling with those of burnt honey, spices and perfumes. Songwriters, storytellers, musicians and dancers of various nationalities touted for custom. Prostitutes plied their trade at the mouth of alleyways, pulling their clients towards them, using the hard brick wall as a mattress or kneeling down before them without a care in the world. Further along, near the gateway to the barracks, women screamed and rolled in the dust as the military scribes from the House of War enrolled their menfolk in the army. I kept drinking in the sights, but Pentju walked slumped, head down like a man sentenced to the stake. The Nubian mercenaries in their leopard kilts, silver chains and nodding white plumes kept us clear of the crowds, their great oval shields displaying the ram’s head of Amun creating a wall around us.
Eventually we reached the Avenue of the Golden Falcon, leading down to the Malkata Palace, its white and red stone walls refurbished and gleaming like a beacon. The huge copper-plated gates opened into finely laid-out gardens. I wanted to stop and inspect some of the new plants, but the captain of our escort shook his head and so we passed on. They left us in an antechamber, its walls decorated with silver antelopes leaping against a light green background above fields of gold. On either side of them ran an ochre frieze embellished with silver palms. I tried to interest Pentju in the painting, but he sat gazing at the floor. I had taken his reluctant oath that he would do nothing stupid or dangerous. A chamberlain served us iced fruit drinks, and I insisted that he tested them first. He was surprised and shocked, but agreed.
A short while later he returned and we were taken into the Dolphin Room, the great council chamber where the Royal Circle would meet. On its cobalt-blue walls silver dolphins leaped above golden waves. Its floor of polished stone reflected the mosaic in the ceiling of more dolphins and other beasts of the sea. At the far end of the chamber, on a raised hooded dais, stood three gold-plated thrones: their backs and arms were decorated with gold leaf, their legs studded with gems; the carved feet rested on polished black footstools inlaid with ebony and silver. The smaller thrones lacked the majesty of the imperial one, but their message was clear enough.
‘A throne fit for a Pharaoh,’ Pentju whispered. ‘But still, one for Ay and one for Ankhesenamun.’ The thrones were faced by a semi-circle of silver-topped tables and cushioned seats, where members of the Royal Circle would squat. I counted ten in all. Three similar tables stood in the centre for the scribes with their writing palettes, reed pens, papyrus rolls and pots of red and black ink.
We had hardly arrived when trumpets blew, cymbals clashed and the great double doors to the council chamber were flung open. Two stole priests entered, swinging pots of incense, flanked by imperial fan-bearers. These took up their positions as the Royal Bodyguard marched in, victorious warriors who displayed the insignia for taking an enemy’s head in battle. The bodyguard formed an avenue for more officials. The council chamber began to fill. More cymbals clashed, trumpets blew, and a herald entered and cried out Pharaoh’s names.
‘He of the Two Lands, the Dynamic of Laws, the Golden Falcon who wears the regalia. He who pleases the Gods, King of Upper and Lower Egypt. The Lordly Manifestation of Ra. The Living Image of Amun …’
We prostrated ourselves, nosing the ground. I stole a glance at Tutankhamun as he entered, garbed in his state costume, his head covered by a pure white head-dress and bound by the golden Uraeus. He wore drawers of pleated linen, ornamented at the back by a jackal’s tail and at the front by an overlapping stiffened apron of encrusted gold and enamel. Over all this hung a long sleeveless robe of snow-white linen, open at the throat to reveal a brilliant pectoral displaying Nekhbet, the Vulture Goddess; a dazzling piece of craftsmanship of precious stones. On his feet were silver-chased peak sandals. Tutankhamun walked slowly, rather ungainly, resting on a walking stick, the head of which was carved in the shape of a panther. He had that same innocent, boyish look, almost feminine: pouched cheeks, slightly parted lips, his almond eyes ringed with black kohl. He was smiling, looking over his shoulder at his Queen Ankhesenamun, who was a stunning vision of voluptuous beauty. Oh, she had changed! A thick, richly braided wig framed her sensuous face, her lustrous dark eyes were emphasised by green kohl, her dusted skin made more eye-catching by glittering jewellery at her throat, wrists, fingers and ankles. She wore a sleeveless glittering robe fashioned in layers and bound by a brilliant red sash, and she moved daintily on thick-soled sandals. She carried a sky-blue fan, edged with silver, and used this to hide her face but not her eyes.
Ay followed behind, head shaven, his falcon-like face gleaming with oil. He wore all the regalia of high office and clutched a beautiful pair of red gloves, a sign of Pharaoh’s personal favour. The other lords followed: Nakhtimin, Huy, Maya, Horemheb, Rameses, Anen, Chief Priest of Amun; all the great masters of Egypt. Their costly robes, gold-edged walking sticks, gorgeous fans and oiled, perfumed faces exuded power and wealth. Maya looked more like a woman than ever, with his thick glossy black wig, painted face and high-heeled shoes. As he turned his head I glimpsed his pearl earrings, and I wondered again about this brilliant man who so desperately wanted to be a woman. The relationship between him and Sobeck had cooled since the latter’s marriage. Rumour had it that Maya now enjoyed a harem of beautiful young men.
Tutankhamun sat down on his throne whilst a stole priest chanted the hymn.
Afterwards, the chamber was cleared of soldiers and officials. Ay and Ankhesenamun took their seats, and the rest followed, whilst the scribes squatted in the middle. Pentju and I remained kneeling until Ay imperiously indicated that we should take our seats at the remaining two tables. Ay had prepared the tablet of business; Pentju and I were at the top of the list.
‘Due to the great favour of Pharaoh,’ Ay proclaimed, ‘the Divine One has decided to reveal his face to them and smile at them. Accordingly …’
In a word, Pentju was appointed Royal Physician and I was to become Overseer of the House of Envoys, with responsibility for foreign affairs. All the time I watched Tutankhamun staring beatifically at me. Now and again in his excitement he would turn to Ankhesenamun. She slouched on her throne, one pretty sandalled foot tapping ever so imperiously. I would wink at Tutankhamun or slightly raise my hand. Beside me, Pentju glowered as Ay, the Great Mongoose as we now called him, turned to the other business. Most of it was mundane, the greater part being the situation in Canaan. Its petty princelings still squabbled; the real danger were the Hittites, who were now a major threat to Egypt’s allies in the region, the Babylonians and the Mitanni. Horemheb and Rameses sang the same old hymn, the need for military intervention. Ay was not so eager to contradict them, the question being when and how. The lions of the desert seemed satisfied with this and eventually the meeting ended.