by Nick Drake
‘What should we do with this?’ I asked Simut.
He shrugged.
‘Perhaps you should present it to the King,’ he decided. ‘He has a notoriously sweet tooth…’
At the King’s tent, I was announced, and entered. The broad light of the desert filtered in, glowing on the patterns of the linens on the walls. The royal paraphernalia had been set out to make a temporary palace: couches, chairs, objects of great value, mats, and so on. It was warm inside. A fan bearer stood discreetly behind the King, his eyes seeing nothing, slowly wafting the heated air. The King was eating. As I bowed and offered the jar, I saw my own shadow on the tent wall like a figure in a temple carving making a holy offering to the God.
‘What is it?’ he asked cheerfully, rinsing his fingers in a bowl, and holding them out for a servant to dab dry.
‘It is wild honey from desert flowers. An offering from some gatherers.’
He took it in his elegant hands, and examined it.
‘A gift from the Gods,’ he said, smiling.
‘I suggest we store it, and when we are back in Thebes, it will remind you of this hunting trip.’
‘Yes. A good idea.’
He clapped his hands, and a servant came and removed the jar.
I bowed, moving backwards, but he insisted I remain with him. He offered me a place on a couch opposite him. He seemed much more light-hearted, and I began to think we had been right, after all, to travel out here. Away from the palace of shadows and its perils, his spirits were already much revived.
We drank a little wine, and some more dishes of meat were brought.
‘So this evening we will hunt?’ he asked.
‘The trackers are confident of finding something. There is a watering hole not far off. If we approach downwind, and silently, then there will be many kinds of creature there at sunset. But the trackers also tell me lions are very rare now.’
He nodded, disappointed.
‘We have hunted them almost to extinction. In their wisdom they have retreated deeper into their own domains. But perhaps one of them will answer my call.’
We ate in silence for a little while.
‘I find I love the desert. Why do we condemn something so pure and simple as a place of barbarity and fear?’ he said, suddenly.
‘Men fear the unknown. Perhaps they need to name it, as if by doing so they might exert authority over it. But words are not what they seem,’ I replied.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, they are slippery. Words can change their meaning in a moment.’
‘That is not what the priests tell us. They say the holy words are the greatest power in the world. They are the secret language of creation. The God spoke and the world came into existence. Is it not so?’
He gazed at me, as if daring me to contradict him.
‘But what if words are made by men and not by Gods?’
He looked disconcerted for a moment, but then he smiled.
‘You are a strange man, and an unusual Medjay officer. One could imagine you think the Gods themselves are our own invention.’
I hesitated to reply. He noticed.
‘Be careful, Rahotep. Such thoughts are blasphemy.’
I bowed. He gave me a long, but not antagonistic, stare.
‘I will rest now.’
And so I was dismissed from the royal presence.
I stepped outside the tent. The sun had moved beyond its zenith, and the camp was silent, as everyone but the guards along the periphery, under their sunshades, had retired from the conquering heat of the afternoon. I did not wish to think about gods and men and words any more. Suddenly I felt weary of them all. I listened to the great silence of the desert, and it seemed the finest sound I had heard in a long time.
29
The Master of the Hunt, accompanied by his chief tracker, beckoned me forward. I moved as quietly as possible across the scrubby ground to the low ridge from where they were scouting the watering hole. I carefully peered over the scuffed edge of the bluff, and looked down on a remarkable sight. In the late light, herds of gazelle, antelope and a few wild cattle were quietly pushing forward, taking their turn to drink, then gazing cautiously into the now golden distances of the savannah, or dropping their elegant heads to crop. The trackers had dug out the watering hole earlier in the day to lure as many animals as possible; some sniffed the dark ground uneasily, scenting the presence of men, yet drawn by the need to drink.
The Master of the Hunt whispered, ‘The water has done the trick. There is good hunting here now.’
‘But no sign of a lion.’
‘They can survive for long periods without water. And they are rare in our time. Once they were plentiful, along with leopards, which I have never seen.’
‘So do we hunt what is here, or do we wait longer?’
He considered the possibilities.
‘We could kill an antelope, and let it lie to see whether the lion will come and eat.’
‘As bait?’
He nodded.
‘But even if we are lucky enough to encounter one, it takes great skill, great courage, and many years of practice to hunt and kill a wild lion.’
‘Then it is well we have some skilled hunters among our group who can support the King in his moment of triumph.’
He turned a nicely sceptical eye on me in reply.
The silent tracker, whose keen eyes had not left the spectacle of the watering hole and its sudden population, suddenly spoke: ‘There will be no lion here this evening. Nor any evening, I think.’
The Master of the Hunt seemed to agree.
‘The moon’s light will help, but we could wait many long hours for nothing to happen. Better to occupy the King and his hunters with what is available now. Everything is prepared, so let us hunt. It will be good practice. And there is always tomorrow. We will search further into the wilderness.’
So later we approached from the south and the east, to the lee of the cool northerly breeze that had risen. The sunset was turning the firmament gold and orange and blue. Those invited to hunt, both the elite men in their fashionable outfits and the professional hunters, stood posed on their chariots, waiting, whisking away the inevitable flies with their fans, and quietly soothing their impatient horses. Archers examined their bows and arrows. The air was tense with expectation. I moved through the small crowd towards the King. He rode a plain, flexible and practical chariot. It had hardwearing wooden wheels, and its light, open construction suited it to this rough territory. Two fine horses, themselves decorated with feathered headdresses, gilded blinkers and magnificent shawls, were ready in the traps. The King stood upon a leopard skin that covered the leather thongs of the floor. He wore white linen, arranged over his shoulders, and a long loincloth tied up for safety and flexibility of movement. His gauntlets were ready, so that his sensitive hands could manage the stresses and tensions of the leather reins, if he wished to take them from his charioteer, who stood respectfully to one side. A fan of gold with an ivory handle and glorious ostrich feathers and his gold cane were propped beside him. Next to them, a magnificent bow, and many arrows gathered in a case, were in place, ready for the hunt.
He looked excited and nervous.
‘Any sign?’
I shook my head. I could not tell whether he was disappointed or relieved.
‘But there are great gatherings of gazelle and antelope, and ostriches, so all is not lost. And this is only the first hunt. We must have patience.’
The horses whinnied and made a small lunge forward, but he pulled on the reins with practised skill.
Then he raised his hand, to command the attention of the hunt, held it still for a long moment, and then dropped it. The hunt had begun.
Those on foot spread out quickly and silently to the east with their bows and arrows poised. The chariots waited a little before moving from the south. I took my position on my own chariot. I admired the light, singing tension of its construction. The horses sniffed
at the excitement in the rapidly cooling air. Up above us the full moon had swung above the horizon. Its pale light illuminated us all as if we were drawings on a scroll for a fable entitled The Hunt by Night. I looked across at the King’s face; under his crown, with the cobra poised on his brow, he still looked so young. But he also looked determined and proud. He sensed me looking at him, and turned to me, smiling. I nodded to him before bowing my head.
Then we moved out, our wheels crunching across the gritty and uneven ground, until the hunting chariots had spread across an area of the open ground as wide as an arena. Once we were in position, the Master of the Hunt gave a practised cry to the archers who had been deployed to the east. Far up ahead in the shadowy distance, I could barely make out the unsuspecting animals at the watering hole–just some silhouettes highlighted against the last of the light. Several raised their heads nervously at the strange cry. And then at a signal from the Master of the Hunt, the beaters suddenly beat their wooden clappers together in a terrific cacophony, and in an instant the herds of animals were charging in alarm–and running, as was intended by the hunt’s strategy, towards the chariots. I heard the distant thundering of their hooves coming towards us. Each man urgently took up his reins, and then, led by the King–who took his instruction from the Master of the Hunt–the chariots hurtled forward to a terrific hue and cry. Suddenly we were in battle.
The hunting dogs and the cheetahs raced ahead towards the approaching beasts, the charioteers had their spears hoisted at their shoulders, or, if they had a driver, their bows balanced and pointed…but the terrified herds suddenly sensed the peril that lay ahead, and veered, as one, to the west, so our chariots spread out, the hunt now on under the glory of the moon by whose light it was possible to see everything in detail. I looked across and saw the King intent on the quarry, urging his horses on. He was a surprisingly fine charioteer. I followed, keeping as close to him as possible, and saw Simut doing the same, so that we were a kind of protective corral. I feared a supposedly accidental arrow or hunting spear striking him in the midst of the hunt, as they whistled over our heads, through the air, to land ahead of us.
The panicked herds threw up a decoy of clouds of dust, drastically unpleasant on the eyes and the throat, so we steered slightly to the north, still galloping at high speed, to try for a clearer view. The slower animals were already failing, especially the ostriches; and I watched as the King took aim and accurately struck a big one down. A hunting dog grabbed the fallen bird by the neck, and began to drag it back, growling and struggling with its great weight. The King grinned at me, thrilled. But up ahead the bigger prizes were still running fast. We urged our horses on faster and faster. The chariots rattled over the rough ground; I glanced down at the axles and prayed mine would hold strong. My teeth were rattling inside my head, and my bones shaking inside my flesh. My ears filled with a constant humming. I wanted to shout with excitement like a child.
The King managed to place a new arrow in his bow, and raised it up to aim. I decided it was time I did something, and followed suit. Up ahead I saw a swiftly bounding antelope, and chose it as my target. I pulled on the reins, and swerved to the right, and forced the horse faster, until suddenly I had him in my sight; in a sudden gap between the flanks of the other animals I let the arrow fly from the bow. Nothing happened for a moment, but then I saw him miss a stride, tangle himself in his legs, and then crash to the ground. The herd raced on and around the fallen animal, and many of the chariots continued their chase.
Now everything was suddenly very quiet. The arrow had pierced the animal’s side, and thick dark blood pulsed and flowed down the steaming flank. The eyes were open wide, but unseeing. Flies, those eternal companions of death, were already buzzing in their disgusting excitement around the wound. I felt both pride and pity. A moment ago this corpse of meat and bones was a living thing of magnificent grace and energy. I am used to the bodies of the dead, to mangled, eviscerated, carved-open corpses, and the sweet rotting stench of decaying human flesh. But this animal, killed in the glory of the hunt, seemed another order of passing. In gratitude and respect, I made the prayer of offering to honour the spirit of the animal.
The King approached on his chariot, accompanied by Simut on his. They drew up, and we waited there in the moonlight, the hot breath of our horses like trumpet blasts in the cold desert night air. The King congratulated me. Simut observed the animal and praised its quality. The Master of the Hunt arrived, added his respectful praise, and directed his assistants to take up the animal, along with those others killed in the hunt. We would not lack for meat.
Back at the camp, torches had been lit, flaring in a circle around the great fire at the centre. The butcher was at his work station at the edge of the camp, his hatchet and knives chopping with assurance down through the soft, vulnerable bellies of the strung-up carcasses. He nonchalantly slung hacked-off hooves on one pile, and gathered the guts in great slippery bundles in his arms, before throwing the best parts into a cauldron. Several archers stood guard on the margin of the camp’s penumbra to protect him and the meat from the hyenas and the desert foxes.
The King’s kill, the ostrich, had been presented to him. He ran his fingers through the magnificent white and brown feathers.
‘I have many fans,’ he said, casually. ‘And therefore I will have these made into one especially for you, Rahotep, as a gift to remember this fine hunt.’
I bowed.
‘I would be honoured.’
We drank water, thirstily, and then wine was poured from a tall jar into our gold beakers. We were served the freshly cooked meat of the kill on dishes of exquisitely crafted metal, placed on the rush mats. I took my pick from the array of bronze knives. The King ate carefully, assessing everything that was placed before him on the plates of gold, and then cautiously trying a little. Despite the physical demands of the hunt, he did not eat with a great appetite. Whereas I was starving, and relished every mouthful of the wonderfully flavoured meat, so much more vivid and tender than anything one could buy from the butchers of the city.
‘You do not like antelope?’ I asked.
‘It feels strange to have seen the living animal running for its life, and now to have this piece of dead…flesh in my hand.’
I almost laughed at his childish sincerity.
‘Everything eats everything else. More or less…’
‘I know. Dog eats dog. Such is the world of man. And yet I find the thought of it somehow–barbaric.’
‘When my children were younger, and we killed a duck or a rabbit at home, they pleaded pitifully for the animal’s life, and then, when the feathers, or the fur and skin had been peeled off like a set of robes, and they had shed their tears, they begged to be shown the heart and to keep the lucky paw. And then they ate the stew with no ill-effects whatsoever, and asked for more.’
‘Children are not sentimental. Or perhaps they are taught to become so because we cannot bear their honesty. Or their cruelty.’
‘Were you taught to be sentimental?’
‘I was raised in a palace, not a home. My mother was taken away from me, my father was remote as a statue. My companions were a wet nurse and a monkey. Is it surprising I gave my love to animals? At least I knew they loved me, and I could trust their love.’
And he gently fed some of the meat to his monkey, then delicately washed his fingers in the bowl.
But we were interrupted, at that moment, by a shadow that appeared on the linen walls at the entrance to the tent. I let my hand fall to grasp the hilt of the dagger hidden in my robe. The firelight outside made the shadow seem larger than life as it approached. The King called out permission to enter. It was his personal assistant. He carried a tray of freshly baked honey cakes, and a dish of the honeycomb. The King’s eyes lit up with delight. The assistant bowed and placed the tray before us. The cook must have decided to make a special treat for the King’s hunting-night supper.
His delicate fingers flickered swiftly towards the cakes; but
suddenly, instinctively, I grasped his wrist.
‘How dare you touch me!’ he cried out.
‘Forgive me, lord. But I cannot be sure…’
‘Of what?’ he shouted petulantly, rising to his feet.
‘That this honey is safe. We do not know its origins. I would rather not take the risk…’
Then his little monkey, with its crafty, shiny eyes, darted down from his shoulder, plucked a piece of honeycomb from the dish, and scampered off into a corner.
‘Now do you see what has happened?’ he cried, annoyed.
He approached the monkey, making little loving noises, but it mistrusted him, and darted along the wall of the tent to the far corner, where it began to nibble at its treasure, blinking with anxiety. Again the King followed him, and I approached from the other angle, in a pincer movement. But the creature was too swift for us, and it darted away again between my legs, snapping at my hand with its sharp little teeth, and ran off again to the far side of the tent, where it sat on its haunches, munching and chattering, until the honeycomb was consumed. The King approached it again, and now that it had nothing to lose, it willingly trotted back towards him, perhaps even in hope of further treats. But suddenly, strangely, it seemed to trip over itself, as if it had forgotten how to walk; and then it curled up into a tight ball, twisting and turning into itself, writhing and uttering little cries of agony. The King’s shout of distress quickly brought Simut and the guards. There was nothing anyone could do. Mercifully quickly, the monkey was dead. I was only glad it was not the King who had died in the grip of poison.
He carefully picked up the dead creature, and gently held it close to himself. He turned and looked at us all.
‘What are you all staring at!’ he shouted.
No one dared speak. For a moment, I thought he was going to throw the little corpse at me. But instead he turned away and carried it into the privacy of his bedchamber.
Outside the moon hung low on the black horizon. It was very cold. The King’s guards stamped their feet, and moved back and forth as they resumed their sentry duty, trying to keep warm and awake as they stood beside the brazier that burned like a small sun in its black cage. Red sparks drifted briefly up into the night, and vanished. For more privacy, Simut and I walked beyond the edge of the encampment. Away from the firelight, the vast silvered desert lands spread out for ever; they were more beautiful, under the great blackness of the night sky, than under the harsh light and heat of day. I looked up, and it seemed the heavens burned brighter than ever tonight with the millions of stars that glittered eternally in the perfect air. But here on earth, we were in trouble again.
