The Year of the Cobra (Akhenaten Trilogy, Book 3) by Author

Author:Author
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-02-16T16:00:00+00:00

The choir of twelve Kushites, three male, three female, three eunuchs and three children, sang the refrain of the hymn from under the shade of the outstretched sycamore in the Garden of the White Lotus at the edge of the Malkata Palace. Nearby, an orchestra of Nubian dwarfs, under the direction of their overseer, played liltingly on oboes, lutes, lyres and harps. Across from them, under the shade of blue-dyed ostrich fans, Tutankhamun and Ankhesenamun, dressed in all their finery, were hunting on the edge of the artificial canal dug in from the Nile. The broad strip of water, purified and filtered, had been fashioned to represent all the beauty of the great river with its marshy, grass-filled edges, hardy bushes and papyrus groves. The stench from the oozing mud was hidden by the perfume of every type of flower, as well as the gusts of incense, cassia, frankincense and myrrh, burnt around the gardens, not to mention the fragrant kiphye in which the sheltering fans had been soaked.

Pharaoh sat on a chair fashioned out of ebony and ivory with a cushioned footstool for his sandalled feet. Beside him lounged his tame lion cub Khonsu, sleeping and twitching whilst his master readied to shoot his bow, waiting for the beaters in the grove to flush out the moorhens nesting there. Ankhesenamun, resplendent in her coloured robes and ornamented head-dress, her necklace of the sun dazzling in the light, was trying to help him. A short distance away her confidante and principle lady-in-waiting, Amedeta, was holding up gold-fringed parasols against the sun. Tutankhamun ordered the fan bearers to move away as a flock of birds burst from a grove in a flurry of sound and colour. Ankhesenamun handed her husband an arrow. Tutankhamun loosed the one he was already aiming, turned to grasp the next, but caught sight of myself and Djarka standing with the chamberlain in the shadowed portico leading into the garden.

‘Uncle Mahu, Uncle Mahu!’

The hunting was forgotten, both bow and arrow dropped from his hand as if he had become totally oblivious to his quarry now whirling and shrieking in the sky above the canal. Ankhesenamun grimaced in annoyance but Tutankhamun was already gesturing us across. The chamberlain, an official of the Golden Chamber, waddled forward pompously, white wand in hand. Tutankhamun was already shouting stridently for his throne to be moved round, cushions brought and both choir and orchestra to be quiet. Djarka and I knelt on the cushions, pressed our foreheads against the footstool then sat back on our heels. Tutankhamun gazed down at us, his beautiful almond-shaped eyes bright and hard. He was smiling though he looked distracted. Pentju should have been there: Tutankhamun looked pale, heavy beads of sweat coating his brow beneath the blue-gold head-dress. Ankhesenamun leaned against the throne, sensuous lips pouting, eyes watchful, her beautiful head tilted back, a gesture so reminiscent of her mother.

‘Uncle Mahu, are you leaving? Will you meet with the Hittites?’ Tutankhamun began. ‘Do they grow their

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