Egypt Read online

  EGYPT

  The Book of Chaos

  Nick Drake

  An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.com

  Epigraph

  Save me from that God who steals souls. Who laps up corruption. Who lives on what is putrid. Who is in charge of darkness. Who is immersed in gloom. Of whom those who are among the dead are afraid.

  Who is he?

  He is Seth.

  The Book of the Dead

  Spell 17

  Contents

  Cover

  Title page

  Epigraph

  Maps

  Cast list

  Part One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Part Two

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Part Three

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  Part Four

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  Part Five

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Nick Drake

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Maps

  Cast List

  Rahotep–Seeker of Mysteries, detective in the Thebes Medjay (police force)

  His family and friends

  Tanefert–his wife

  Sekhmet, Thuyu, Nedjmet–his daughters

  Amenmose–his young son

  Thoth–his baboon

  Khety–Medjay associate

  Nakht–noble, Royal Envoy to All Foreign Lands

  Minmose–Nakht’s manservant

  The royal family

  Ankhesenamun–Queen, mid-twenties, daughter of Nefertiti

  Ay–King

  The palace and other officials

  Simut–Commander of the Palace Guard

  Nebamun–Chief of the Thebes Medjay

  Panehesy–Sergeant in the Thebes Medjay

  Khay–Chief Scribe

  The Hittites

  Hattusa–Ambassador

  Suppiluliuma I–King

  Crown Prince Arnuwanda–his eldest son

  Prince Zannanza–his fourth son

  Queen Tawananna

  Part One

  You shall be decapitated with a knife, your face shall be cut away all round. Your head shall be removed by him who is in his land. Your bones shall be broken. Your limbs shall be cut off.

  The Book of the Dead

  Spell 39

  1

  Year 4 of the Reign of King Ay, God’s Father, Doer of

  Right

  Thebes, Egypt

  I stared down at five severed heads that lay in the dust, at the godforsaken crossroads, in the small dark hour before dawn.

  It was cold, and I drew my old Syrian woollen cloak closer around me. The night sky was moonless. The city was all shadows. Doors and windows were shut. No early workers, up before dawn on their way to another long day’s labour, paused to observe the spectacle. No one would dare to approach a scene like this. Not in these dark times. The old phrase came to me unbidden: ‘The earth is in darkness as if in death…’ Only the stray dogs of Thebes howled to each other across the districts of the city, from the poor slums to the rich suburbs, as if giving voice to the ka spirits of these murdered Nubian boys, hungry for sustenance as they flew between this world and the next.

  Under the setting stars shimmering in the ocean of the heavens, a few officers of the city Medjay moved about in the flickering light of their torches, chatting nonchalantly, their shadows wavering on the mud-brick walls of the nearby dwellings. A few nodded at me; others didn’t. They had already carelessly trampled their sandals all over the crime scene, destroying any evidence that might have remained. Not that it would matter, for the investigation would be cursory at best. Massacres like this had become commonplace, and the gangs who committed them with impunity seemed to have taken control of the poor districts. They trafficked in opium, gold and human beings, trapping and selling young girls and boys into dead-end prostitution. Their victims even included Medjay officers, fantastically tortured, then decapitated and dismembered for refusing to take the golden opportunity of corruption. Rival gangs slaughtered each other in score-settling bloodbaths along with their screaming girlfriends; the teenage sons and daughters of high-ranking bureaucrats were kidnapped and brutally murdered after the ransoms had been paid; and so, despite all the security and high walls gold could buy, no one in Thebes felt safe.

  But these decapitated victims were just street kids–Nubian boys, with tattoos and braided hair, and little arrow amulets on leather necklaces to mark their gang membership. They would have run the low-level opium sales for their bigger brothers. They were from the poorest, most dismal of the slums; uneducated, without employment or prospects, vulnerable to the stupid outlaw mystique of the gangs. All bore the wounds of previous street battles: knife-scars on their cheeks, blotted and sunken eyes, blunted, misshapen noses, and ears deformed by beatings. None were older than sixteen–most were younger. Their childish faces now wore the empty look of disappointment common to the newly dead.

  The boys’ heads were set in a neat row at the feet of their corpses, which had been laid side by side, so that they looked like innocent friends dreaming together. Their dusty hands and feet had been roughly, tightly bound with cheap cord–but when I examined them I was puzzled, for the knots were unusually expert. Also, when a man is beheaded, his blood pumps in arcs from the neck wound; but judging from the absence of any other bloodstains in the street dust, these boys must have been executed somewhere else, and then dumped here as a warning, probably from one gang to another.

  I bent down to examine the wounds in better detail: the neck muscles and the spine of each boy had been severed by a single, powerful stroke, which suggested a practised, indeed an exemplary, skill. And the killer must have used a high-quality blade; perhaps a ceremonial khopesh scimitar, or a butcher’s long yellow flint blade, razor-sharp for eviscerating cattle. Knives have powers of protection and of retribution. The Guardians of the Otherworld carry knives, and so do the minor Gods of that dismal place, with their fearsome faces and their heads turned backwards; and so, clearly, did this killer. I could picture his excellent technique, and his unusual pride in his skill. This did not seem like the work of the usual brutal gang executioners.

  In my years on the Thebes force, I had seen every kind of meaningless brutality enacted on the human body. Cruelty, rage, grief–and something others carelessly name evil–can reduce the strange collation of profanity and beauty which makes up each of us to an inanimate lump of decaying meat. I had stood in grim backrooms, and stooped over the twisted bodies of children battered to death. I had considered the ruined remains of young women face down in the still-warm shadows of their own blood. I had seen the matter of the brain–that peculiar ivory jelly, which some say is the repository of our thoughts and memories–dashed across mud-brick walls. I had seen the raw meat of our physical beings exposed as in a butcher’s shop; I knew how quickly youth and beauty bloat and stink, whe
n the ka and ba spirits have departed.

  I had seen much worse things than the sight of these five Nubian boys’ expertly decapitated heads. And yet it angered me deeply. Perhaps it was our apparent powerlessness to stop this tide of violence. Perhaps it was the Medjay’s obvious lack of interest in protecting the poor. Or perhaps I was simply growing old. The hair on my head was grey now, the glossy black of my youth a distant memory; my belly was still trim, but some dawns I felt my bones creaking, and the weight of the skin on my face, and a strange slowness in my blood when I rose to confront the new day.

  I shook my head to dispel such pointless thoughts. And then I noticed something, just visible between the pale lips of one of the Nubian boys’ heads. I inserted my finger between his white teeth, and retrieved a folded slip of papyrus. It was sticky with blood and saliva. I carefully peeled it open. Neatly drawn in black ink was a strange sign: a black star with eight radial arrowheads. Gangs often left scrawled, barely literate messages with their victims’ body parts–all part of the grim ritual, the blood-soaked display of power. But usually the messages were banal: Learn Respect; Keep Silent; Be Afraid. This was different. It was not, for one thing, an Egyptian hieroglyph, for our stars have five points, and look nothing like what was before me.

  Suddenly, a chariot, drawn by two tired little horses and accompanied by a running guard, clattered up the street, and Nebamun, Chief of the Thebes Medjay, descended. The officers, who until this moment had been sharing their usual diseased banter, straightened up in silence. Nebamun glanced over in my direction. I knew he would want this scene cleared up and the bodies disposed of before dawn broke, and the city awoke. There would, of course, be no proper investigation. Instead, a few likely culprits would be dragged off the streets of the slums, and tortured to confess, and then swiftly executed, as a sign to the world at large that the city Medjay could still do its job. Whatever their petty misdemeanours, these dead boys were still murder victims, and they deserved justice. But because they were poor Nubians they wouldn’t get it; Nebamun–‘a man of this world’, as he repeatedly claimed, justifying his shortcuts to justice, his casual corruption, and his remorselessly practical violence–would see to that. To talk of justice was to be out of date, old-fashioned and laughable. He was coming towards me. Against the rules, and with a corresponding touch of pleasure, I quickly hid the papyrus in my leather satchel, for further contemplation.

  ‘Shit always travels downhill, eh, Rahotep?’ Nebamun said, nodding at the dead boys, and coughing grimly at his tired, old joke. He wrapped his long, finely pleated linen gown tighter around his stately form. He was wearing his gold shebyu collar of honour as always, just to remind us of his worldly success. Once impressively muscular, his stocky physique had collapsed into the soft middle age of a man who had succeeded in his profession. His features were blunt, and his hands were not as steady as they had once been, but his eyes still glittered with the pleasure of power. I caught a waft of the sweet smell of beer on his breath. He had never developed a taste for decent wine. I instinctively took a step back from him. He grinned, revealing his poor teeth, and then spat a fat gob of phlegm into the dust a bit too near my sandals. My baboon, Thoth, growled quietly at him.

  ‘Five more dead Nubian street kids. Who cares?’ he said, prodding their bodies with his sandals.

  I knew better than to respond.

  ‘Let’s get this cleared up. No point in distressing the decent hard-working citizens of Thebes with a nasty sight like this, eh?’ he said, and he made a sign to the officers to get to work. Then he turned back to me, as if something had just occurred to him.

  ‘What are you doing here, Rahotep?’ he said.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  Which was true.

  Nebamun and I had never seen eye to eye. He had beaten me to the office of Chief of the Thebes Medjay, and immediately proved his innate stupidity by becoming a petty tyrant, intimidating his best men rather than freeing them to do their jobs. In particular he had used his power to sideline me to the point where I was no longer ordered to the scenes of murders, but put to work on petty cases which should have been given to junior officers. And in doing so, he had taken from me the thing I valued above almost everything: my work as a Seeker of Mysteries. Twice before, I had been called upon, over his head and beyond his authority, to solve mysteries by the highest in the land–first by Nefertiti, and then later by her daughter, Ankhesenamun, and her husband, King Tutankhamun. Twice I had been summoned and set to work, independent of his authority. And twice, he would insist, gleefully, whenever he had the chance, I had failed. For Nefertiti had vanished, and Tutankhamun had died. And yet I could never tell him the true story behind these events, to justify myself, for I had promised my silence on those matters.

  Suddenly, a Nubian woman ran into the street. She was breathless and desperate. The officers moved to stop her, but Nebamun shook his head, casually giving permission for her to approach her dead child. She fell to her knees before one of the heads and began to keen a high, desperate howl of inconsolable misery.

  ‘I’m sorry for the death of your son,’ I said quietly.

  She gazed up at me, her face shattered.

  ‘What was his name?’ I asked as gently as I could, but Nebamun interrupted me.

  ‘You don’t belong here, Rahotep. This isn’t your case.’

  ‘It won’t be anyone’s case,’ I said, before I could stop myself. ‘Like you said, five more dead Nubian boys? Who cares? End of story.’

  ‘Exactly so. So why don’t you fuck off home, before I kick you all the way to the end of the street,’ he snapped back, delighted to have antagonized me.

  He nodded to his men. They grasped the grieving mother under the arms, and dragged her away, her howls echoing through the dark and silent streets.

  Once, I would have owned this scene. Once I was known as the best Seeker of Mysteries in the city. This would have been my case, and perhaps I might have been able to give that mother something, in the end, that looked like justice. I might have discovered why the knots on the ropes were expert, and found the killer who was so strangely skilled at beheading teenage Nubian boys.

  I looked around one final time, shading my eyes against the dawn light. Soon the day’s heat would take control of the city. Thebes would shimmer and bake under the furious eye of Ra. It would be another day ruled by this world’s new gods: gold and power.

  I took Thoth by the leash, and we walked slowly away into the last of the shadows.

  2

  The noble Nakht, tall, slim and elegant, was standing at the top of the entrance stairs of his grand city house, greeting his rich and elite friends as they arrived and passed through into the grand reception hall. He was wearing his finest pleated linens and a magnificent shebyu collar–two strands of solid gold rings. Such collars were royal gifts, signs of high favour and office, strikingly beautiful, and very heavy. Such ostentation was a recent development in his personal appearance, which had always been austere; but his rise to even greater eminence, as royal envoy, seemed to have encouraged him to a more open display of personal opulence, about which–as he made very clear–he was not to be teased. Nakht was now one of the most powerful men in the land: the chief official who oversaw the relations between the judiciary, the priesthood, the government and the palace, and who, as royal envoy, represented Egypt abroad. In short, he was the keystone of power. And yet I could never quite square that with the man I knew, who was more interested in studying the mysteries of the stars, and the obscure puzzles of ancient texts, than in the crude, day-to-day business of power and politics. I observed him in action from my bodyguard’s vantage, just to his side. His finely drawn face, with its delicate features, moved through exactly the right range of expressions as he greeted each dignitary according to his stature, and by name (for his memory was famously prodigious): the nobles and priests with poised grace, the overseers with a sly, collaboratively subversive wink, the new magnates with respect. And yet, his topaz
eyes, alive with intelligence, seemed to observe the pageant of all this, and indeed of all human life, as a slightly remote spectacle. He had the concentrated hunting eyes of a hawk in the smooth face of a gentleman.

  Our friendship was unlikely. We had met when we were younger, at a grand reception in Akhetaten, the new temple city built by Akhenaten and Nefertiti midway between Thebes and Memphis. Nakht had been born into a world of gold and privilege, but despite the differences in our origins we had taken to each other immediately.

  And now, all these years later, and despite his eminence in high politics and intellectual life, he still seemed to find something amusing and interesting in me. I, for my part, remained intrigued by his life of the mind, his bladed intelligence, and above all by his warm love for my children. Perhaps he borrowed from me the one thing he lacked in his life–a family. And I was glad to share them with him.

  Once upon a time, I had been an invited guest at Nakht’s famous social functions. Tonight I was here because I was working. Nakht had started to employ me occasionally as his personal bodyguard, saying he could trust my discretion in a way he could trust no one else. With his customary tact, he had made it seem as if it was I who was doing him the favour. And given the unreliable and ever-diminishing payments from my Medjay work, and the spiralling costs of even the most basic of foods, I was absolutely desperate for any means to provide for my family. Many of my fellow Medjay officers, alarmed by the increasing murder rate among our own kind, and the worsening violence in the city, had been drawn into private security work: either at rich men’s houses, or rich families’ tombs, loaded with treasures and gold–which were always threatened with violent robbery. Some made money on both sides, by collaborating with gangs of tomb-robbers. Others had also been drawn by need or weakness into blackmail, protectionism and extortion. Many times I regretted refusing the Queen’s offer to become her private guard, which she had made five years before; but the palace was never my world–I was a Seeker of Mysteries, and no matter what the cost, and no matter how absurd it might seem, I had no choice but to remain true to myself.