Egypt Read online

  ‘Order and chaos? Well, you’re looking rather chaotic yourself,’ he observed, with a brief smile.

  ‘All part of the service, sir,’ I replied, realizing my linen tunic was looking the worse for wear.

  ‘Not where we’re going,’ he responded.

  He took me upstairs, and watched as I washed myself from a basin of cool water, then insisted I borrow a fresh and very fine-pleated, gossamer-thin long white linen tunic, with short sleeves and pleated ends, a fringed kilt, and a standard broad collar–all from his extensive wardrobe. I felt like a stranger to myself in such fine, indeed noble, clothing. It only just fitted, for Nakht is tall and slim as a papyrus reed, and I am thicker-set.

  ‘How do I look?’ I asked.

  ‘Better,’ he said, satisfied, as he looked me over, making minute adjustments.

  ‘So where are we going?’ I asked. ‘Why do I have to dress up?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ he replied. Then he picked up the standard of his rank–a long ostrich feather, curved at the top, on a beautifully painted pole–and set it against his shoulder. As we left the refuge of the house, his security guards swiftly ordered the crowds back and created a cordon between the street doors and his beautiful, lightweight, gold-gilded, extremely expensive chariot, which was drawn by two elegant black horses. We took our places, standing side by side on the leather mesh floor. The guards fell efficiently into place, running before and behind us, and shouting peremptory commands to anyone who dared to get in our way; and we moved off into the noise of the city.

  The ways were crowded with pack mules carrying mud-bricks or vegetables, and serving girls going about their domestic errands, and street children begging. Minmose, Nakht’s manservant, held on to the back of the chariot, struggling to protect us from the blaze of midday with a sunshade. People stopped and stared at the sight of the great and noble Nakht, with his standard of office, going about his important business, moving through the sea of humanity like a perfect god in his white pleated robes.

  Nakht still had not told me where we were going, but as soon as we approached the docks my suspicions were roused. And when we stepped on to a royal palace official boat, they were confirmed. Nakht took his place in the main cabin, out of sight; and once I had satisfied myself about the security of the vessel and its crew of palace shipmen, I stood guard at the entrance to the cabin. The helmsman at his double steering oars cried out his command, the rowers began their labour, and we slipped past the wharves crowded with larger vessels and barges, and out of the great harbour.

  As we steered into the main current of the Great River, I felt the air lift and freshen. I raised my face, relishing the vivid river scents, and from further away to the west, beyond the great stone temples and necropolises, the pure simplicity of the desert air. I knew we were heading towards the vast complex of the royal palace of Malkata. I thought back to the last time I had made this same journey. I had not been wearing a borrowed tunic, nor had I been the employee of another man. I had been Rahotep, Seeker of Mysteries, summoned to the funeral of Tutankhamun by a living god, the Queen of Egypt herself. And now I was going back.

  Inside the cabin, Nakht was scrutinizing a set of official papyri; but when he saw me looking in, he invited me to enter the shade, and I sat next to him on the handsome bench.

  ‘You hardly need me as a security guard to take you to the Malkata Palace,’ I observed.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he said meaninglessly, as if otherwise preoccupied.

  ‘It occurs to me I should apologize for my outburst at your party,’ I offered, reluctantly.

  ‘You spoke out of turn, if not out of character,’ he observed, while continuing to run swiftly through the cursive script on his papyrus. ‘You seemed furious about something which is, after all, common knowledge. It was quite inappropriate.’

  I shrugged, suddenly feeling like a moody schoolboy before the cool power of a teacher.

  ‘My tolerance for the easy talk of the elite has all but vanished,’ I replied.

  ‘So now in your wise middle age you think of yourself as the magnificent, embittered sage of truth.’ He looked up, scanning my face.

  ‘Believe me, I see myself very differently,’ I replied, perhaps a little stiffly.

  He almost smiled.

  ‘My old friend. I know you see the reality of the streets, and the miseries of the people, and that is a valuable perspective. But remember the world of the wealthy, the priests and the nobles also suffers from dangerous tribulations. The two are not mutually exclusive. Much is at stake for everyone these days. We are all bewildered and tormented by the question of the succession. The future seems very uncertain, and that in itself creates conditions of dangerous unrest.’

  ‘But while everyone’s talking and moaning, the world we thought we knew and believed in is being destroyed all around us,’ I said.

  Nakht glanced at me somewhat impatiently, and then wrote rapidly with his reed pen, the cursive characters forming fluently in black ink. I envied him his great skill in writing. My own has never been better than clumsy and awkward.

  ‘And you think you are the only person to notice this, I suppose? And I suppose you also have a proposal to save us all from the abyss of disaster which you foresee? I suppose you know how to solve the problem of the succession? I suppose you know how to balance the vital authority of the royal family against the landed interests and powers of the priesthood and the nobility, and how to protect both against the vaulting ambitions of the army under General Horemheb? Or would you prefer just to stand and watch everything fall apart, and then say, “See? What did I tell you?”’

  He could be so frustrating at times, because his rhetoric could quickly trap me into absurdity. And also because he was often right. But I wasn’t ready to let this go just yet.

  ‘You’re right, of course. But you and your noble friends all sit in your lovely villas, in your clean, fancy clothes, in your fine jewellery, writing your poems and going about your love affairs, and playing your games of politics. You have no idea of what’s going on out there, just the wrong side of your villa walls. The rule of law is toothless, it’s powerless. The day before yesterday I saw five young Nubian street kids, just low-level opium dealers…’ I said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And someone had very efficiently and mercilessly cut off their young, foolish heads.’

  He looked up at me with his topaz eyes.

  ‘What would you have me say?’

  ‘Do you remember my old assistant, Khety?’ I asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He came to see me. We talked. At first I thought it was just the usual gang warfare. But he’s been investigating. And he’s discovered a few things that worry me,’ I said.

  ‘Such as?’

  Nakht put down his reed pen. I thought I noticed a glint of interest in his eyes now.

  ‘Such as there’s a new supply of opium. Suddenly it’s widely available. It’s high quality. The price is undercutting the usual gang families, who are being wiped out.’

  ‘And is that such a bad thing? Those gang families are extremely destabilizing for the city…’ he said.

  ‘That’s what everyone’s saying. But I want to know: who are these new gangsters who kill with impunity and skill? How much power do they desire? Are they the new lawmen of this city?’

  ‘How would I know?’ he answered.

  His airiness suddenly annoyed me. We had known each other a long time. He could at least relax a little with me, of all people.

  ‘You’re the royal envoy. You’re at the heart of power. You know everything.’

  He observed me with his strange, dispassionate eyes. I could never tell what he was really thinking.

  ‘I have not seen that expression on your face for a long time,’ he said, almost amused.

  ‘What expression?’

  ‘The one where you look like a cat watching a bird. Fascinated. Compelled, despite yourself.’

&nb
sp; ‘Well, it matters…’ I replied.

  ‘Indeed. So what do you propose?’ he asked.

  ‘Khety asked me to join him in a new investigation. Find out who this new gang are.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said I would think about it,’ I said.

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘You should be careful. It sounds extremely dangerous,’ he replied.

  And he seemed about to say more, but we were interrupted by a call from the captain. We were now crossing the slightly stagnant, unnaturally silent waters of the Birket Habu, the vast artificial lake in front of the Malkata Palace complex, and approaching the long stone quay where those on government or diplomatic business alighted. Beyond lay the royal quarters with their pools and pleasure lake, the vast labyrinth of government offices, and the huge underworld of kitchens, bakeries, granaries, storehouses and stables that served this city within a city.

  Nakht rolled up his official documents, straightened his linens, hoisted his standard, and prepared to disembark.

  ‘Whatever happens now, please trust me,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘And no more careless talk. At the party it was relatively harmless. Here it would be insubordination.’

  And then he stepped lightly from the boat on to the stones of the palace quay.

  6

  I waited outside the Audience Hall, in a long corridor where officers, administrators and priests in their white linen robes came and went, self-important and whispering in the awful hush that seemed to hold the whole labyrinth of the palace in its thrall. In order to reach this hallowed place, we had been ushered through chamber after chamber, stateroom after stateroom, each one ever-more glorious, ornately decorated and filled with ever-more important dignitaries, Priests and Officers, who had bowed and watched us like jackals as we continued on our progress to the heart of the Palace. The sense of gloom was unrelieved by the glorious paintings covering the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. Elegant fish swam beneath my feet. Wild ducks rose up from the papyrus reed beds of the Great River. The painted water was clean and the painted flowers were perfect. It all seemed like wishful thinking.

  With nothing to do but wait, I drifted back to a reverie of one of the last times I had entered this palace. I had returned from the royal hunt with the corpse of Tutankhamun, who had been killed in a hunting accident. For this, I had incurred Ay’s wrath, and his unending enmity. And Ankhesenamun, the King’s young wife, the daughter of Nefertiti, had known at once that her own destiny was changed for ever. Instead of the new enlightenment which she and Tutankhamun had intended to bring to the empire, she had been forced to marry the vicious old Vizier, Ay. She had had to acquiesce to his ascension to absolute power in order to prevent an even worse outcome: a military coup by General Horemheb. And now, with Ay’s impending death, it seemed that that great disaster had only been postponed, and would soon be upon us.

  As I was pondering these matters, footsteps approached. I looked up to see a friendly face. It was Simut, Commander of the Palace Guard. A Nubian, he was statuesque and broad-shouldered, and possessed a face of burnished integrity. We had been together with King Tutankhamun when he had died.

  ‘Have you put on weight?’ he asked, assessing me.

  ‘Probably,’ I said. ‘I wish I could say the same of you. You always look so absurdly fit and healthy.’

  He laughed quietly and invited me to sit on one of the gilded benches near by.

  ‘What brings you back to the palace after all this time?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m accompanying the royal envoy, Nakht. But in a private capacity, as it were. I’m really only here for show…’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, delicately grasping my meaning. ‘Well, it’s good to see you. How long has it been?’

  ‘A while,’ I replied, carefully.

  ‘Best not to dwell too much in the past,’ he offered. ‘Although the present isn’t promising, either. And as for the future…’

  He shrugged his big shoulders. And then he added quietly: ‘She still asks after you, from time to time, you know.’

  I felt ridiculously gratified to hear the Queen still remembered me.

  ‘I hope all goes well with her,’ I said.

  He glanced up and down the corridor to check we were alone.

  ‘The Queen’s position is delicate. She is greatly admired, and many still love her with the old devotion. But when Ay dies she will be extremely vulnerable. People in power are weighing up their alternatives. Without Ay she will not be able to control the army–indeed, no one could. Horemheb is on the warpath all right…’

  ‘I thought he was far away, in the northern lands, fighting the Hittite wars?’ I asked.

  ‘Indeed, he is supposed to be. But…’ he leaned in closer, and lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘… no one knows exactly where he is. He might be in Memphis, or he might be with his battalions. Things have changed, you know, especially the business of war. He’s taken it all into his own hands, built a new network of garrisons, changed the whole management of the conflict. The grand old days of heroic and mighty armies clashing on the field of battle in blood and bravery are a thing of the past. Now there’s a new strategy–low-key occupation of cities and towns. The garrisons control the ways and the trade routes. And…’ he lowered his voice even further, ‘… he’s set up a very efficient new system of army messengers. Basically, he’s created his own intelligence network, independent of the palace—’

  I was about to ask Simut more about this when the huge, gilded ceremonial doors before me suddenly opened. We both leapt to attention. Nakht appeared, but instead of departing, as I had expected, he absorbed the little scene of my dialogue with Simut; and then, to my astonishment, he invited me into the great Audience Hall.

  ‘Life, prosperity, health.’

  I offered the royal greeting, on my knees, my head bowed.

  My words echoed quietly among the columns of the great, hushed hall.

  ‘Stand up, Rahotep.’

  There was a warm pleasure in the voice of Ankhesenamun, She Who Lives through Amun, the Queen of Egypt, as she spoke my name.

  I looked up. She sat on a gilded throne set on a dais at the end of the hall. Her face had changed. The soft, delicate, slightly unfocused youthful features I remembered had acquired great beauty and angularity, and more authority, without losing the charismatic glow that became her so well. There was a new depth of understanding in her eyes. She wore a highly fashionable black wig, perfectly curled, cut precise and short under the back of her head, that framed her face perfectly. It enhanced her beauty and added a powerful, stylish severity. Her diaphanous pleated gown was elegant and elaborate, with a knot under her left breast, leaving one shoulder bare. She wore a magnificent, inlaid gold vulture collar and the rearing gold cobra of the uraeus on her brow, to express her royal authority. On her wrist she wore a gold bracelet inset with a large lapis lazuli scarab. She was composed and regal. She had grown into herself. She had become Queen. I felt unexpectedly moved, as if she were a youngster I had once admired, and now met again as a famous and accomplished adult. But as I looked into her eyes, I realized she was also extremely tense, coiled with an anxiety she struggled to disguise.

  And we were not alone. On the other gilded throne set upon the dais, I saw a strange bundle of linens. And then I realized the bundle was alive. It was Ay, Doer of Right, King of Egypt. The last time I had seen him he had been suffering from the misery of toothache, sucking on a lozenge. Now, in his shroud of white linen, and with an exquisite gold ankh amulet hanging around his scrawny neck, he looked like something that should have crossed the border between the living and the dead long ago. I observed the blunt facts of his bony skull, his jutting, quivering jaw, and his crippled fingers. He seemed as shrunken and fragile as a wingless, featherless bird. His skin was thin and dry, stretched between bone and bone, blotched and stained purple and brown by time. But there was also a grim tension, a determined force that still held him together, and
I realized that that tension was acute physical agony. For the left side of his face was completely disfigured by a vile canker. It seemed to be eating him alive. It was pink, red and black, and in places beaded with blood. It gave off a scent that was not of rotting flesh, but something more acrid and revolting and animal; I knew it would haunt me for the rest of the day. He panted lightly, struggling for each breath. And he could not speak. Only his right eye still seemed alive; and it gleamed with all the hatred of the pain destroying his body. Once, this diminished monster had held all earthly power in his hands; he had controlled kings, he had destroyed great enemies, he had waged war on other empires, and he had aspired to the status and power of a god on earth. And now he was nothing but skin and bone, and the grim black blossom of the canker that would soon destroy him.

  In truth, the revenge of time on this tyrant seemed like earthly justice. But even I was shocked when I noticed the open canker’s wounds were dotted with tiny white eggs–and that, despite the attentions of the Bearer of the Fan who stood impassively behind the throne, waving the ornate ostrich-feathered royal fan, minute black flies whirred incessantly around Ay’s head in a quiet cloud. He gestured for me to approach, as if he wanted to communicate with me. He struggled to speak, but only weak grunts issued from his constricted throat. In a fit of impotent fury, he gradually raised his arm and pointed a quivering, gnarled finger at me, as if concentrating all power and meaning into the gesture. Then his eyes swivelled towards Nakht as if to say something; but suddenly he fell back, powerless, flopping weakly on to the arms of his gilded throne.

  With surprising compassion, Ankhesenamun laid her warm, beautiful hand on his vile claw. This simple gesture seemed to draw him back to consciousness, and he revived slightly. There was a touch of froth on his desiccated lips. He gasped lightly for air like a suffocating fish. He had so desired immortal life on this earth, and now he was brought down to the simplest of truths: he would die, and very soon. The water clock of his life was nearly dry; the last drops were falling, slowly, slowly. He would soon lie in his magnificent tomb, encased in the gold and stone nest of his sarcophagus and coffins, waiting for the life after life. No doubt it was already well prepared.