Nefertiti rr-1

by Nick Drake

  ‘How many tombs are being built?’

  ‘I don’t know. Many, I think. People who can afford it are putting a lot of their wealth into the projects.’

  ‘So they must think it’s worth the investment? They must think they’re going to stay here and be buried here?’

  ‘Yes, but also they need to be seen to think that.’

  Such are the worries of wealth. This obsession with the dream of the afterlife sometimes strikes me as ridiculous. We will all vanish in the great light of the sun like flood water from a field, leaving nothing of ourselves but our children. And they in turn will vanish from life. I know how cynical I seem to others when I am like this. Tjenry’s death had put me in this dark frame of mind. I remembered a verse of an old poem:

  What of their places now?

  The walls have crumbled

  Their places are no more

  As if they had never been.

  It was not yet the hour of rest, and we had a little time to kill before the workers returned for their midday meal. The tension of Tjenry’s death was still deep in my bones, and I knew action was the only remedy, so I decided to look at the boundary stones along the city’s eastern edge.

  Khety was reluctant. ‘Don’t you think it’s too hot to go clambering up there?’

  I ignored him, took the reins, and we drove on, Khety holding the parasol over my head. After maybe fifteen minutes following the now rough track, we abandoned the chariot and walked on across the dreary land until finally we clambered up some rocks and found ourselves at the foot of a huge new boundary stone carved from the living rock, and flanked by figures of Akhenaten and Nefertiti gazing out over their new land. I was sweating heavily; the linen was drenched on my back. We each took a draught of cool water from the flask Khety had thoughtfully brought with him. Then I began to examine the inscription, and slowly read it out:

  Akhetaten in its entirety belongs to my father the Aten

  given life perpetually and eternally-

  of the hills, uplands, marshes, new lands, basins, fresh lands, fields, waters, towns, banks, people, herds, groves

  and everything that the Aten my father causes to pass into existence perpetually and eternally

  ‘That just about covers everything,’ Khety said, staring out from our new vantage point.

  We sat down together under our little shade and looked back across the wide and shallow plain. In the far distance we could just make out the river glittering through the trees and the city baked white and dry along its lush green banks. It looked unreal, a mirage. The temple banners hung down utterly lifeless in the midday stillness. The new fields-barley, wheat, vegetables-were a mosaic of greens and yellows inlaid into the dusty black of the fertile land. On the far side of the river, beyond the cultivations of the western shore, the dazzling delusions of the Red Land shimmered. I shaded my eyes, but there was nothing to make out there.

  I asked Khety, ‘Do you like it here?’

  He gazed out over the landscape. ‘I’m lucky. I’ve a good position. We’re secure enough. We look after each other. And we’ve bought some land.’

  ‘Do you have a big family?’

  ‘I have a wife. We live with my father and my grandparents.’

  ‘But no children yet?’

  ‘We’re trying. But so far…’ He trailed off. ‘I need a son. If I can’t father a son, we can’t continue our family’s relationship with Mahu and the Medjay. It’s the only way we can survive. My wife believes in charms and spells. She goes to some unqualified doctor who makes her believe that a concoction of flower-distillation and bat-shit, a full moon and a few offerings is going to bring us a boy. She even says the root of the problem is me.’ He scowled and shook his head. ‘Mahu offered to recommend us to the Doctor of the Palace. Someone who really knows about these things. But we feared the indebtedness.’

  I decided to meet him as an equal in this new frankness. ‘I have three girls. Tanefert, my wife, went crazy before Sekhmet was born. We were so nervous, worrying over every sign. She’s not especially superstitious, but one night I found her pissing into two containers, one with wheat, one with barley. I said, “What are you doing?” and she said, “I’m going to see which one will grow, and then we’ll know whether we’re having a boy or a girl.” Neither of them really grew, although she swore the barley was taller, so we expected a boy. Then Sekhmet arrived, yelling and beautiful and entirely herself.’

  I heard a shout. Two young guards were looking up at us from below the rocks. We clambered carefully down. Both were young, maybe seventeen, both obviously bored out of their minds with nothing to do all day, every day, but throw stones, dream about sex and wait for the end of their endless shifts.

  ‘What are you doing up there?’

  I showed them my authorizations. They squinted at them. Illiterate.

  ‘We’re Medjay,’ said Khety.

  They backed off immediately. We walked back with them along the track to their tiny hut where they sat or slept on a reed mat. It seemed an inadequate thing next to the mighty claims of the boundary stone. They propped their weapons-two crude spears-against the door. There was a barrel of water, a jar of oil, a pile of onions and a torn but fresh barley loaf on a shelf.

  They asked where I was from. When I told them I was from Thebes, one of them said, ‘One day I’m going to go there. Take my chances. I’ve heard it’s great. Things happening. Parties. Festivals. Plenty of work. Nightlife…’ The other shifted on his feet, unsure, unwilling to meet our eyes.

  ‘It’s a great place,’ I said. ‘But it’s hard. Watch yourself when you get there.’

  ‘We’re going anyway. Anything to get away from this miserable hole.’ The quieter one looked alarmed by his friend’s candour. His friend, emboldened, continued. ‘We’re going to join the new army.’

  This was news to me. What new army?

  ‘There’s only one army,’ I said carefully. ‘The King’s army.’

  ‘There’s a new man rising up the ranks. He sees things differently. He’s going to make things happen.’

  ‘And what is this new man’s name?’

  ‘Horemheb,’ he said, with respect and even a touch of awe.

  Then a faint call came from the next border post; the boys raised their hands in salute and yelled back. We left them there, with a brief farewell, and drove back towards the village.

  ‘Have you heard of this Horemheb?’ I asked Khety.

  He shrugged. ‘The Great Changes have opened up many new routes to power for men from the non-elite families. I’ve heard his name; he married the sister of the Queen.’

  This was new information. A new army man who had married ambitiously into the royal family.

  ‘So he will be attending the Festival?’

  ‘He would be obliged to.’

  I thought about all this as we rattled our way over the broken stones.

  ‘And where is the Queen’s sister?’

  ‘No idea. They say she’s a bit strange.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I heard that once she cried for a year. And she rarely speaks.’

  ‘But he married her anyway.’

  Khety shrugged again. It seemed to be his habitual response to the way of the world.

  In contrast to the sophistication and enormous scope of the central city, the artisans’ accommodation was stark, functional and hurriedly constructed. There were several crude altars and little chapels built around the outside of the thick mud enclosure walls, among pig sties, stables and outhouses; domestic life carried on regardless in these chapels, with animals feeding in them and women cooking bread in ovens.

  Khety and I entered through the gate. The houses seemed more or less identical: a small forecourt ran along the front of each dwelling, full of animals and storage jars, and beyond that was a higher, airy central room, with smaller rooms at the back. The architects of these repetitive shacks had failed to add stairs to the roof, so the occupants had built their own crazy z
igzags using bits of old cast-off timber wherever they could find access. As in Thebes, the roofs were a vital part of the house. They were covered with trellises and vines, and fruits and vegetables were laid out in the sun to dry.

  The houses ran in parallels, creating narrow lanes made narrower by piles of goods and materials and junk. Pigs, dogs, cats and children ran about under our feet, women yelled across at each other, a few sellers called their wares. Itinerants in stinking rags, cripples with rotten limbs and the hopelessly workless sat on their haunches in the shadows. We struggled to make our way between pack-mules and herds of men. The contrast with the classy green suburbs was overpowering, and I confess I felt at home for the first time in days. It was good to be back among the business, chaos and mess of normal life, and away from those highly considered and artificial precincts of power.

  A few well-directed questions from Khety led us to the door of the Overseer. I knocked on the lintel and peered into the dark of the interior. A rough-looking giant, his tough face bristling with harsh stubble, glanced up from his table.

  ‘Can’t I even eat my lunch in peace? What the hell do you want?’

  I stepped into the low, hot room and introduced myself. He grunted, and reluctantly invited me to sit down on the low bench.

  ‘Don’t stand watching while I’m eating. It’s rude.’

  Khety remained outside the doorway.

  I sat down and looked him over. He was a typical builder made good: paunch resting on a powerful frame, gold collar around a thick neck, big hands that had worked hard all their life, broken, blocky nails packed into strong, stubby fingers, adorned with more cheap gold, that tore into the bread with need not pleasure. He ate continuously, mechanically, using all five fingers, feeding himself like an animal. Behind him, a woman’s and a girl’s face peered from behind a curtain that separated the room from the kitchen yard. When I glanced in their direction they looked intently at me, like stray cats, then vanished.

  I showed him my authority. He could read it, as could many of these artisans, for they had to understand plans and building instructions, and carve hieroglyphics. He touched the royal seal and grunted, suspicious and, although he disguised it, alarmed.

  ‘What does a person with written authority from the King want in a dump like this?’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your rest but I need your help.’

  ‘I’m just a builder. What kind of help could I give a man like you? Or any of those performing monkeys that pass for our Lords and Masters?’

  I liked his courage and his contempt. Something relaxed a little between us.

  ‘I’m looking for someone. A girl. A missing girl.’

  He carried on eating voraciously as he spoke. ‘So why look here? No-one cares about missing girls, they’re glad to be rid of them. Shouldn’t you be down in the city?’

  ‘I’ve a hunch her family might be living here.’

  He pushed the bread towards me. ‘Hungry?’

  I took a piece and ate it slowly. I’d forgotten we’d had no food today.

  ‘Tell me about this missing girl,’ he said.

  ‘She would be a young woman. Beautiful. She would have been raised to a position in the city.’

  He wiped his hands and face. ‘Not much to go on, is it?’

  ‘Someone would miss a girl like her.’

  ‘What colour are her eyes? What kind of face has she got?’

  ‘Her face is missing. Someone beat it off her.’

  He looked at me, whistled and shook his head slowly, as if this information just proved his theory of the way of the world. Then he stood up abruptly and gestured to the door. ‘Come.’

  The crowds parted swiftly along the narrow lanes to let us pass; this man was respected and feared. He was the Overseer, with the power to give and take away privileges, work and justice. He was as powerful as Akhenaten himself in this, his own domain. We came to the village’s only open area, covered by colourfully decorated linen shades that threw patterns on the hard dirt floor and the benches that ran the length of the space. Hundreds of workers from all over the Empire, from Nubia to Arzawa, from Hatti to Mittani, sat talking, yelling and even singing in their own languages. All were eating quickly, helping themselves from large bowls placed along the benches. The sentry boys at the boundary stone were missing out on all this. Women moved up and down serving thick barley beer in bowls. The noise and heat were incredible.

  The Overseer stood at the head of the central bench. He knocked his staff of office on the wood three times and the place was immediately silent. All heads turned in his direction, attentive but keen to get back to the business of eating.

  ‘We have an important visitor,’ he announced, ‘and he wants to know if anyone’s missing a girl.’

  There was a brief ripple of laughter, but it died fast when the Overseer slammed his staff down hard again. Everyone looked at me to see who was asking this question, and why. I knew I needed to speak.

  ‘My name’s Rahotep, Thebes Medjay. I’m investigating a mystery. No-one here’s done anything wrong, but it’s important to me to find the family of a girl who’s missing. I believe she worked in the city but that she came from among you. All I’m asking is, does anyone know of a family who might be concerned about their daughter or sister?’ The men stared at me. ‘Anything anyone wants to tell me will be confidential.’

  There was a total, hostile silence. No-one moved. Then a young man at the back slowly stood up. I led him to a space on a bench away from the crowd. The Overseer left us to talk, saying, ‘I want him back at work in no time.’

  We sat down opposite each other. His name was Paser. He had the hard, precise, honed physique of a skilled labourer, his hair locks white with dust, his hands already callused by the harshness of the stone that will be the most familiar thing-more than his wife’s body, more than his own children-he touches all his life. But he looked back at me with eyes that seemed intelligent; perhaps not clever, exactly, but thoughtful and independent.

  ‘Tell me about yourself, please.’

  He looked suspicious. ‘What do you want to know? Why are you here asking questions?’

  ‘Why did you respond to my question?’

  He looked down, his thick fingers crossed into each other. ‘I have a sister. Her name is Seshat. We grew up in Sais, in the western delta, but the town was falling apart; nothing to do all day but sit around waiting for work that was never going to come again. So we all travelled here praying we could find employment. We were lucky. When we got here father and I found construction work because my father’s a cousin of the Overseer, and Seshat went to the Harem Palace.’

  Khety and I exchanged a glance. At last, an interesting connection.

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Why?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Nothing you say will go beyond these walls.’

  ‘You are Medjay. Why should I trust you?’

  ‘Because you must.’

  He had little choice, and eventually he spoke. ‘I’ve been working on new offices within the Harem Palace. Sometimes we were able to speak to each other. We’d find a quiet corner for a few minutes…’ He paused. ‘We used to see each other several times a week. We made an arrangement. But the last time she didn’t appear. I thought she might just be busy. She always sends my parents something every week. But this week…’ He shook his head. ‘Where is she?’

  He took me to his parents’ house. They shuffled about, uncertain of the seating or standing protocol, awkward in my presence. In the back room, the grandparents worked. They nodded politely, and returned to their tasks. I was glad to notice the old gods were still displayed in the family shrine: amulets of Bes and Taweret, and statuettes of Hathor-the old protecting deities of the family, fertility and festival. The new religious iconoclasm had not yet conquered this little home.

  The father, a middle-aged man, began talking about his daughter, his treasure:
how well she was doing, the way her beauty and grace had given her a new opening in life in the Harem Palace. His pride. His joy. Their bright future. And all the time, although I could not yet be sure, I sensed in my bones that this man’s daughter was lying dead, brutalized, destroyed for eternity, on a slab. I saw the mother at the curtain, her face confused with worry at my presence, and at these questions. But I had no proof, and that was what I was here for. I could not be swayed by arguments of emotion, not now.

  ‘And you haven’t heard from her for some little time now?’

  ‘No, but she’s busy, you see. We can’t expect it. No doubt working too hard! They do work them hard, I know.’ The father smiled uncertainly.

  ‘I have to ask you a personal question. Does she bear any birth marks? Any marks on her body?’

  The father looked puzzled. ‘Birth marks? I don’t know. Why are you here, asking all these questions? Why is a Medjay officer sitting in my home asking questions about my daughter?’ He now looked frightened.

  ‘I hope to find her.’

  ‘If you want her, why don’t you go to the Harem Palace and ask for her there?’

  ‘Because I am afraid she is not there.’

  The truth was beginning to dawn on them. The mother stood, struck silent and still as a statue, at the entrance to the room. Slowly she pointed to her belly.

  ‘She has a scar, like a little star. Here.’

  I left that house in a silence from which I knew it would never recover. The father’s gentle face had broken open as surely as if I had smashed it with a rock, wondering why I should have come into his home to ruin the contentment of his old age. The mother’s refusal to believe any of this was real. The son’s bitterness would refine itself, over time, into a pure hatred of the gods that had permitted the vicious destruction of an innocent life. I told them only that she had been murdered; I failed to find the courage to tell them the rest. But I promised to have the body returned to them for proper burial. All I could leave them with, besides this agony, was the scarab. I could only hope it would cover the costs of a good burial and all the necessary rituals. And after all, as far as I was concerned it belonged to the girl. The least I could do was help to make sure she would not be left to rot in some desert grave, not after what she and her kin had suffered already.