Nefertiti rr-1

by Nick Drake

  Khety and I exchanged glances. Even though she was blind I still felt she could see everything.

  ‘And the Queen?’ I asked.

  ‘What about her?’

  She stared at me, hard. There would be no yielding here.

  ‘Would this city not exist without her?’

  ‘It seems to be surviving so far.’

  Silence.

  ‘You are lost already,’ she continued, decisively. ‘You know nothing. You have nothing to ask me because you have discovered nothing and understood nothing.’

  It was somewhat true, and all the more infuriating for being so.

  I said, ‘I find a young woman, to all purposes identical to the Queen, murdered, her face removed. I find no evidence that the Queen’s disappearance was either violent or against her will. I do, however, find reasons why she might have decided to disappear of her own accord.’

  She grinned, baring her gold teeth, in reply. And then she was caught out by a racking cough. She spat out a little phlegm, careless of where it landed. Khety and I just stared at it.

  ‘Can you hold dreams in your hand?’ she continued. ‘Can you say why people need gods, and why power’s legs must needs be crooked on the straight road? Can you say why men cannot be honest? Can you say why time is more powerful than love? Can you say why hate is more powerful than time? There are many questions your method cannot accommodate.’

  I could not say why any of these things should be so. I played my last card: ‘She is not dead.’

  Her face did not change. ‘I’m delighted to hear your optimism in the face of so much evidence to the contrary.’

  ‘Why do you think she disappeared?’

  ‘Why do you think she has disappeared?’

  ‘I think she had to make a choice. Between fight and flight. She chose flight. Perhaps it was the only way for her to survive.’

  Her face puckered with rage. ‘If that is the case, then she is a despicable little coward,’ she spat. ‘Did she think it would be so easy, to just disappear when things got difficult? Pack up her tender feelings, abandon her children and her husband and disappear, crying her futile tears? Damn her for her selfishness, for her vanity, for her weakness.’

  Her anger echoed around the cold room. Then, suddenly, she staggered a little. Her hand flew up to her face while the other searched about for the arm of the throne, but in her panic she missed, her legs lost all power, and she slipped down to the stone platform. She made no sound. Her veils had fallen from her shoulders and lay about her like white and gold linen snakes. For a moment she was quite still. I moved to her aid, and as I did so her breath began to rattle and shake as she struggled, tangled as she was in the folds of her robes. As she moved the clothing came away from her chest. Its brown skin hung in shrivelled folds from the bones. She seemed more a shadow doll, all sticks and string, than a living thing. Then I saw, with horror, black and blue cankers, open sores, blossoming where her breast should have been.

  Without thinking, I touched her shoulder. And she screamed. The noise seemed to pierce the stone of the walls. I heard feet running towards us outside in the corridors. Then she grasped my head and pulled it down towards her rotting face. Her grip was supernatural, and she whispered urgently, wetly, into my ear: ‘Time himself is feasting on me. He is dining with care. He is powerful. But my hatred will survive me. Remember that, when you see beauty, for this is the end of beauty and power. That is my final answer to all your questions.’ Her sightless, moony eyes were fixed with strange concentration in that doll’s skull. Then she let me go, and all strength departed from her body.

  I reached out to cover the horrible sight again, but she cried out a second time, and I realized that every touch caused her agony. It could not be long now. And there would be little work left for the embalmer to finish.

  23

  We drove to Meryra’s villa. By now the population was clearly changing and growing, as people arrived for the Festival. The atmosphere was changing too: it carried a new tension, partly from the fact of there being too many people cramped together in one place that was not yet ready to receive them. But there was something else, an undercurrent of fear that had not been there before. I noticed more armed Medjay on the streets, and not in pairs but in units, as if preparing for the great event. It seemed, suddenly, that these new buildings, temples and office complexes could shiver, quake and collapse into the dust of their making for no reason. The world no longer felt solid; it felt conditional. There were tremors of uncertainty under our feet.

  We arrived at the villa just as Meryra’s celebration procession was making its way along the street. The man himself was carried on a high throne, together with his wife in a long wig and a pleated linen gown. They both looked highly satisfied with themselves and their elevation above all others. He seemed the man of the moment. The late light shone on his gold collars. The parade passed into the main house with shouts and cries, and Meryra was lifted down and, to calls of praise and congratulation, and the casting of flowers, accompanied inside his house, presumably to change his robes.

  Suddenly Parennefer was at my side.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Everything you said about her was true.’

  He gazed about the crowd, taking note of who was and who was not there. ‘No sign of Ramose of course. Apparently he was invited but sent a message of apology saying he had urgent affairs of state to resolve. But of course no-one’s buying that.’ He paused meaningfully.

  ‘Let me guess,’ I said, as we pushed past the guards and into the open courtyard of the villa. It was paved with alabaster, and lined with trees. A long pool glimmered by candlelight. ‘He’s jealous of Meryra’s promotion.’

  Parennefer clicked his tongue and flicked out his hands. ‘Of course that. But not only that. It creates a dilemma. Meryra’s politics are opposed to Ramose’s. And now, since he’s been publicly favoured by Akhenaten, he has the power to influence events and decision-making.’

  ‘And what are his politics?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s dedicated to domestic issues. He doesn’t care about much else other than flattering the King. Ramose thinks the Great Estate is threatened by the barbarians that surround us. He thinks we’re all ignoring the instabilities in our foreign territories. He thinks we need to turn our attention to solving them through military campaigns. Meryra thinks we can solve them and our domestic issues simultaneously by inviting the various parties to the Festival. Bring them all here, give them a talking-to, show them a good time, demonstrate who’s in charge, and so on. Ramose thinks that’s like inviting a gang of tomb robbers to dinner, giving them your knives and offering them your wife.’

  ‘I think Ramose has a point,’ I said.

  Parennefer sighed. ‘I know. But Meryra has the ear of Akhenaten. We must have Nefertiti restored. What would happen if, during the Festival, she’s still not here, or, worse still, is revealed as having been murdered? It would hugely damage the prestige of the event in front of everyone. It would open up all sorts of flaws in the appearance of power, just at the moment when we most need to assert our supremacy.’

  I decided not to mention the argument between Akhenaten and Ramose, and the few fragmentary words I had overheard, which now seemed to take their place, like shards of evidence, in a possible version of that conversation which ran along the lines: do you not see the danger to which you are committing us by bringing together these conflicting and mutually adversarial foreign powers at the worst possible time? But Akhenaten’s dilemma was acute: preparations and negotiations had taken many months, if not years; all the visiting parties had to travel for several weeks at least to attend; most were on their way, arriving within a few days. If he abandoned the Festival now, the consequences could be catastrophic for his authority and his power-base. His enemies would say he was significantly weakened either way. No, cancellation was not an option. I wondered how he slept at night.

  Suddenly I heard a scream. I looked up and saw a small sun o
f intense, crackling white fire, with arms and legs struggling below it, emerge from the main door of the house and run as if dancing crazily in small, agonized zig-zags, emitting high shrieks. Everyone hurried back, crying out in horror, as the burning figure ran blindly among the crowd.

  I ran forward and cast a jug of water over the figure: but this only enraged the fire. So I pulled a decorated covering from a bench, and threw it over the man, pulling him to the ground to suffocate the flames that seemed to burn ever more fiercely. The heat was more intense than ordinary fire, and gave off a strongly noxious smell; quickly it was burning through the covering. Khety swiftly found a heavier cloth, and we finally extinguished the flames. We stood back, brushing the last burning tatters from our own clothes and hands.

  The body itself twitched and trilled rapidly in its mortal agony, and then fell still. The stench of burned flesh and hair was disgusting. The courtyard was absolutely silent. I pulled away the burned and scorched materials from the upper gown, which was expensive and magnificent, and saw gold collars.

  It was Meryra.

  Then his wife emerged from the house. She stepped towards the body as if in a trance. When she saw all that remained of her husband, she let out a high, ululating scream, and then collapsed into the arms of her attendants. Instantly there was pandemonium among the guests, who fled in panic like a herd of desert antelope, the women kicking off their sandals the better to run.

  Among the chaos, and surrounded by Priests in white linen gowns, I examined the corpse. I carefully peeled back the textiles that were now fused to the head’s remains. Not much was left. The flesh was charred, and as I gently separated the burned material patches of white bone were exposed. It looked indeed as if the flesh had been eaten away, as well as burned. The eyes were milk-white, like a cooked fish. I noticed around the scalp, however, patches of something black and viscous like tar, still steaming. Bitumen. This would account in part for the noxious scent I had noticed. Adhering to this sticky pitch were tufts of burned, matted fibre. Hairs. The remains of a wig. It must have been painted with bitumen on the inside, and then suffused with some intensely distilled, highly volatile substance that, once alight, burned with a terrible incandescence. And in turn the greater the heat, the more liquid and flammable the bitumen would have become. The burning wig would very quickly have become fused to the victim’s head. I tried again to understand the scent, but although I caught something-strange, pungent, acidic, almost with a hint of garlic in it perhaps-it was confused by the stench of the burned flesh.

  Parennefer stood to one side in shock, his face glistening with perspiration, his eyes blinking. ‘How could this happen?’ he said, over and over. I felt like slapping him. It seemed very clear to me: this was another accurate blow aimed at the vulnerable heart of the Great Estate. The High Priest of the Aten had been burned to death on the night of his glory by a fire of judgement.

  Suddenly, the courtyard was stormed. Armed Medjay on chariots thundered through the gate, leaped down and surrounded us and the body. Others were swiftly directed to fan out and search and occupy the villa and its outbuildings. From the dark heart of this noisy operation appeared a tall, solid figure. Mahu. He stood over the body, ignoring my presence. He looked carefully at everything. Then, still without looking at me, he said, ‘Take him away.’

  I was tied up, trussed like a pig and thrown onto a wagon, which was driven away at speed through the city. The shadows of the buildings ran over me. I looked up at the roofs of houses and the high, still stars above them. I knew where we were going.

  24

  I was dragged fast down the dark corridors, my feet scrambling under me, until we arrived once again at the over-official, over-impressive doors, with the emblem of the Aten and its many hands bearing their ankhs above the lintel.

  The mind is a strange thing; at moments of disaster it obsesses itself with nonsense. I remembered my old partner, Pentu. We were from the same city, the same streets. We had studied together, and come up through the lower ranks. We’d been called to a robbery, a jewellery shop in the lower quarter, near the main square. We were just making our way through the mess of the shop, shattered wood and broken vases and knick-knacks crunching under our feet. Pentu gestured to me that he would check the back room, and he went carefully in. For a moment there was silence, then he looked back around the door. ‘Empty,’ he said, and shrugged his broad shoulders. And then the point of a dagger appeared in his chest. Blood spread across his shirt. He looked shocked, then very disappointed. He sank to his knees. Behind him stood a young man, no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, a look of vicious fear on his face. Without thinking I threw my dagger. It whirred through the air, struck him hard in the heart, and he collapsed without a sound.

  I ran to my friend and turned his face up to me. He was still alive. The blood was pulsing out of him. Too much blood. ‘Shit,’ he murmured. ‘Shit,’ I said. I couldn’t think of anything better. We sat like that for a little while, the sounds of the afternoon coming to us remotely from the street. Everything seemed very far away. Then he whispered, ‘D’you remember that old story?’ I shook my head. ‘The bit where the King says, “I want to drink a vat of Egyptian wine.” And then he does. And the whole country goes, “The King has a terrible hangover,” and he says, “I won’t speak to anyone today. I can’t do any work.” ’ He smiled and then he died. Just like that. His last words. Nonsense. We almost all die with the same thought: but I have not yet finished!

  I stood waiting with these useless thoughts, and I record them not because I believe them to be insights but because there was nothing else. My mind should have been racing with panic to find a solution to my dilemma. Instead, nonsense commanded my attention. Is this our mind’s way of helping us survive these moments of disaster? Do we enter the Otherworld to meet the gods with our minds in such disorder? Or is it just me-a fool, in the final reckoning?

  The doors opened and I was untied and thrown through them and onto the floor. Mahu was already sitting at his desk. He remained turned from me, attending to something far more important. These games again. Finally he looked up, and those lion eyes gazed at me. Neither of us spoke. I was certainly not willing to start this conversation.

  ‘Do you remember the last time we met in this office? I told you I was here to help. I may not approve of you, I may not like you, but let me offer my hand in professional respect,’ he said.

  I stayed silent.

  ‘Yet you have chosen to ignore my generosity when it could have been such a support to you.’

  ‘I don’t count assassination with a bow and arrow as support.’

  He got up, came round the desk, as annoyingly tidy as ever, and then, out of the blue, he whacked me hard across the face. I blinked back the humiliation and anger. But beyond this, I was pleased. I had made him furious. This was good. He was breathing heavily.

  ‘If it were not for Akhenaten’s incomprehensible but of course indisputable trust in you, for such an accusation I would already have had you sent away in fetters to the gold mines in that barbaric land of Kush where you could perish slowly from the heat and the labour, and think a scorpion sting a gift from the gods.’

  My silence after that outburst seemed to irk him even more. I wiped a drop of blood from the corner of my mouth.

  ‘If I wanted you dead, Rahotep, do you not think I could have arranged a more convenient, more effective, less confusing end for you and a less embarrassing one for me? You could have asked me, “Who was that fine gentleman who tried to shoot me?” And I could have told you something about him. But no. You could have made me a friend. Instead you have made me an enemy.’

  He stepped away. He had, I must admit, the beginnings of a point, though I was sure he was bluffing about knowing the identity of my would-be assassin. I was unable to silence myself now.

  ‘You have wanted me out of here from the start. Why? Is professional jealousy motivation enough? I doubt it. Perhaps you have something to hide.’


  Swiftly he swung towards me, his face close up to mine. I saw the lines around his eyes, the sparks of fury in his cold eyes, heard the hissing tension in his voice. His breath was unpleasant. I smelled the tang and taint of loathing on it.

  ‘Only the protection of Akhenaten-and we both know how weak that is becoming-prevents me from killing you now.’

  The slavering dog barked. ‘Silence!’ he yelled, whether at me or the dog neither of us could be sure. The dog retired, whimpering. I smiled. His hand flew up again to strike me, but he controlled himself in time.

  ‘Oh Rahotep,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘you believe you live a charmed life. But listen to me now. Since you arrived here nothing has been as it should. I respected the wishes and commands of the King. I let you make your moves. And look where it has got us. Dead girls. Dead Medjay officers. Dead Priests. I feel chaos coming upon us, and I think you are to blame. So now I have to set things right again before it is too late.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ I said. ‘If you were capable of finding the Queen, or of solving these assassinations, you would have done so by now.’

  His voice went very quiet. ‘Do not make the mistake of underestimating me. I can silence you. I can make you talk. I can make you sing like a girl, if I want. I’m going to present you now with a very simple choice. Leave this city, tonight. I will provide an armed escort. You can go back to Thebes, take your family away, and disappear. I will protect you from Akhenaten’s anger. Or stay. But you will make me your worst enemy. Whatever you choose, remember your family. Your lovely Tanefert. Your lovely little girls. Sekhmet. Thuyu. Nedjmet. Who think life is music and dancing and sweet dreams. And remember: I know everything about them.’