Tutankhamun: The Book of Shadows rr-2

by Nick Drake

  ‘You are like one of your bees, going from flower to flower, sampling the nectar of this and that…’

  ‘That is quite a good analogy, except that it makes me sound like a dilettante.’

  ‘My friend, I would never accuse you of being a dilettante, nor a dabbler, nor an amateur. You are a kind of philosopher mixed with an inward-seeking adventurer.’

  He smiled, satisfied.

  ‘I like the sound of that. This world and the Otherworld are full of curiosities and mysteries. It would take many lifetimes to understand them all. And disappointingly, it seems to me we only have one…’

  Before I could escape with grace, he introduced me to a group of middle-aged men who were conversing together under the awning. They were all affluently dressed, in linens and jewellery of finest quality. Each of them examined me curiously, like an object of strange interest that perhaps they might purchase, at a bargain price.

  ‘This is Rahotep, one of my oldest friends. He is a chief detective here in Thebes-he specializes in murders and mysteries! Some of us think he should have been made Head of the city Medjay at the last opportunity.’

  I tried to deal with this public flattery as best I could, although I loathed it, as Nakht knew very well.

  ‘As I’m sure you are all aware, my dear friend’s rhetoric is famous. He can turn mud into gold.’

  They nodded all at the same time, apparently delighted by this.

  ‘Rhetoric is a dangerous art. It is the manipulation of the difference, one might say the distance, between truth and image,’ said a small, fat man with a face like a sat-upon cushion, the startled blue eyes of a baby, and an already-empty cup in his fist.

  ‘And in our times, that distance has become the means by which power is exercised,’ said Nakht.

  There followed a little awkward silence.

  ‘Gentlemen, this gathering is sounding almost subversive,’ I said, to lighten the moment.

  ‘Surely it was ever thus? Rhetoric has been a force for persuasion since man began to speak, and to convince his enemy that he was indeed his friend…’ said another of the men.

  They tittered.

  ‘True. But how much more sophisticated it has all become now! Ay and his cronies sell us words as if they were truth. But words are treacherous and untrustworthy. I should know!’ said the blue-eyed man, ostentatiously.

  Several of them laughed, raised their hands and wagged their dainty fingers at that.

  ‘Hor is a poet,’ explained Nakht.

  ‘Then you are a craftsman in the ambiguity of words. You master their hidden meanings. That is a very useful gift in these times,’ I said.

  He clapped his hands in delight, and hooted. I realized he was slightly drunk.

  ‘True, for these are times when no one may say what he really means. Nakht, my friend, where did you find this remarkable creature? A Medjay officer who understands poetry! Whatever next, dancing soldiers?’

  The company laughed harder, determined to keep the mood light and easy.

  ‘I’m sure Rahotep will not mind if I reveal he too wrote verse when he was younger,’ said Nakht, as if to smooth over the hairline cracks that were beginning to appear in the conversation.

  ‘It was very bad indeed,’ I replied. ‘And no evidence exists of it any more.’

  ‘But what happened, why did you give it up?’ asked the poet solicitously.

  ‘I don’t remember. I suppose the world took over.’

  The poet turned to the company, wide-eyed with amusement.

  ‘“The world took over,” that is a good phrase, I may have to borrow that.’

  The company nodded back, indulgently.

  ‘Be careful, Rahotep, I know these writers, they say “borrow” when they mean “steal.” You will soon read your words coming back to you on some privately circulated scroll of new verse,’ said one of them.

  ‘And it will be a vicious little satire and not a love poem, if I know Hor,’ said another.

  ‘Very little of what I do belongs in a poem,’ I said.

  ‘And that, my friend, is why it is interesting, for otherwise all is artifice, and how easily one tires of artifice,’ replied the poet, thrusting out his empty cup at a passing servant. ‘Give me the taste of truth any day,’ he continued. The girl approached, refilled our cups, and departed, taking her quiet smile and the attention of several, although not all, of the men with her. I thought how little of reality this man would know. Then the conversation resumed.

  ‘The world has certainly changed greatly in these last years,’ said another of the men.

  ‘And despite the advances in our international power, and the achievements of our great new constructions, and the standards of affluence which many of us now enjoy-’

  ‘Blah blah blah,’ mocked the poet.

  ‘…not all the changes have been for the better,’ agreed another.

  ‘I am against change. It is overrated. It improves nothing,’ said Hor.

  ‘Come now, that is an absurd opinion, and goes against all sense. It is merely a sign of age, for as we get older, so we believe the world gets worse, manners decline, standards of ethics and knowledge are eroded-’ said Nakht.

  ‘And political life becomes more and more of a dismal farce…’ interrupted the poet, draining his cup again.

  ‘My father is always complaining about such things, and I try to argue with him, and find I cannot,’ I offered.

  ‘So let us be honest at least with each other. The great mystery is that we find ourselves ruled by men whose names we hardly know, in offices that remain inscrutable, under the governance of an old man, a megalomaniac without even a royal name, who seems to have cast his gruesome shadow over the world for as long as I can remember. Under the ambitions of the great General Horemheb, we have been engaged in a long and so-far fruitless war with our ancient enemies, when surely diplomacy might have done far more, and saved us the endless drain upon our finances. And as for the two royal children, it seems they are never to be allowed to grow up and take their rightful places at the centre of the life of the Two Lands. How has this come to pass, and how long can it continue?’

  Hor had spoken the unspeakable truth; it seemed no one had the courage to answer.

  ‘From our point of view we are very comfortably off, and we thrive within the circumstances of our lives. There is affluence and work, and we keep our fine houses and our servants. Perhaps for us it is a fair compromise. But I imagine you witness a very different side of life?’ said a tall, elegant gentleman, bowing and introducing himself to me as Nebi, an architect.

  ‘Or perhaps you really do see the awful reality of things as they are, from which we, living within the charmed circle of our comfortable lives, remain defended,’ added the poet with a touch of the supercilious in his tone.

  ‘Why don’t you accompany me one night, and find out?’ I said. ‘I could show you the back streets and the shanties where honest but unlucky people survive on the rubbish we all throw out without thinking. And I could introduce you to some very successful career criminals, experts in viciousness and cruelty, who trade in humans as a commodity. Many of them have fine offices in the city, and beautiful wives and children set up in lovely homes in the comfort of the new suburbs. They throw lavish dinners. They invest in property. But their riches are made in blood. I can show you the reality of this city, if that is what you are looking for.’

  The poet put his stubby hands to his forehead theatrically.

  ‘You are right. I leave reality to you. I cannot bear too much of it-who can? I admit I am a coward. Blood makes me faint, I hate the look of poor people and their awful clothes, and if someone even knocks into me accidentally in the street I shriek in fear I am about to be robbed and beaten. No, I prefer to stay within the safe, well-behaved company of words and scrolls in my comfortable library.’

  ‘Even words are not perhaps safe in these times,’ said another man, standing at the back, in the best part of the awning’s shade. ‘Remembe
r we are in the presence of a Medjay officer. The Medjay itself is part of the reality of this city. It is not immune from the corruption and decadence of which we speak.’ And he looked at me coolly.

  ‘Ah. Sobek. I wondered whether you would join us,’ said Nakht.

  The man he addressed was of late middle age, with short grey hair untouched by dye. He had striking grey-blue eyes, and a touch of anger at the world written into his features. We bowed to each other.

  ‘I do not think speech is a crime,’ I said carefully. ‘Although others might disagree.’

  ‘Indeed. So crime depends on its enactment, not its intention or articulation?’ he asked.

  The others glanced at each other.

  ‘Yes, it does. Otherwise we would all be criminals, and all behind bars.’

  Sobek nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Perhaps it is the human imagination that is the monster,’ he said. ‘I believe no animal suffers from the torments of the imagination. Only man…’

  ‘The imagination is capable of enacting the very best in us, and the very worst,’ agreed Hor, ‘and I know what mine would like to do to some people.’

  ‘Your verse is torment enough,’ quipped the architect.

  ‘And that is why civilized life, morality, ethics and so on, matter. We are half-enlightened, and half-monstrous,’ said Nakht assertively. ‘We must build our civility upon reason and mutual benefit.’

  Sobek raised his cup.

  ‘I salute your reason. I wish it every success.’

  He was interrupted by a roar from below in the streets. Nakht clapped his hands, and shouted:

  ‘The moment has come!’

  There was a general rush towards the parapet of the terrace, and the men dispersed to compete for the best vantage points.

  Sekhmet appeared at my side.

  ‘Father, father, come or you will miss everything!’

  And she dragged me away. Another vast cheer rolled like thunder all along the Way below us, and on and on through the crowds packed into the heart of the city. We had a perfect view of the open area before the temple walls.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Thuyu.

  ‘Inside the temple the King and Queen are waiting for the right moment to appear and to welcome the Gods,’ said Nakht.

  ‘And what’s inside the temple?’

  ‘A mystery within a mystery within a mystery,’ he said.

  She squinted at him, annoyed.

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything at all,’ she commented, correctly enough.

  He smiled.

  ‘Inside there is an extraordinary new construction, the Colonnade Hall. It has just been completed after many years of labour. There is nothing else like it upon the earth. Its columns reach to the sky, and they are all carved and painted with wonderful images of the King making offerings; and the roof is painted with uncountable gold stars around the Goddess Nut. Beyond is the vast Sun Court, surrounded by many tall, slender columns. And beyond that you must pass through portal after portal, as the floors get higher, and the ceilings lower, and the shadows darker and darker-and these all lead to the heart of everything: the closed shrine of the God, where he is woken at dawn, and fed with the finest of foods, and clothed in the best of linens, and put back to sleep at night. But only a very few priests, and the King himself, are allowed to enter there, and no one who does can ever speak of what he has witnessed. And you must never speak of what I have just told you. For this is a great secret. And great secrets bring with them great responsibilities.’ He stared at her sternly.

  ‘I want to see it.’ She grinned her clever grin.

  ‘You never will,’ said Sekhmet suddenly. ‘You’re just a girl.’

  Nakht was just thinking about how to respond to that when trumpets blasted out a deafening fanfare; at this signal the ranks of priests knelt down as one in the perfect dust, and the soldiers stood tightly to attention, their spearheads and arrowheads glittering in the unforgiving sun. Then, from out of the shadows of the vast enclosure wall, two small figures appeared, seated upon thrones carried by officials, and surrounded by men of the offices and their assistants. The moment they moved from the shadows to the sun, their robes and high crowns caught the powerful light, and they shone dazzlingly bright. An absolute hush descended upon the city. Even the birds were silenced. The most important moment of the festival’s ritual had commenced.

  But nothing happened for a few moments, as if they were too early for a party, and no one had quite thought what to do to keep them entertained. The royal sunshade holders produced sunshades and protected the royal figures within circles of shade. Then a roar up ahead announced the God in his gold shrine, borne on the shoulders of his bearers, as the procession slowly and laboriously turned the corner, and appeared in a flash of light. The royal figures waited, seated like dolls, costumed, stiff and small.

  Preceded by high-ranking priests chanting prayers and spells, surrounded by acrobats and musicians, and followed by a white sacrificial bull, the God approached. Finally the King and Queen stood up: Tutankhamun, the Living Image of Amun, and next to him Ankhesenamun.

  ‘She looks frightened.’

  I looked down at Sekhmet, then back at the Queen. My daughter was right. Under the paraphernalia of power, the crown and the robes, the Queen looked nervous.

  From the corner of my eye I saw, from out of the dense crowd standing under their sunshades against the intense light of the sun, several figures raised up by other figures as if on the joined hands of acrobats, and then a series of swift movements, arms casting something-small, dark balls that arced high in the air, over the heads of the crowd, on an inexorable trajectory towards the standing figures of the King and Queen. Time seemed to stretch and slow, as it does in the last moments before an accident.

  A series of bright splashes of red exploded suddenly across the immaculate dust, and over the King and Queen’s robes. The King staggered backwards and slumped into the throne. The silence of profound shock suspended everything for a long moment. And then the world exploded into a thousand fragments of noise, action and screaming.

  I feared Tutankhamun was dead; but he slowly raised his hands in horror or disgust, reluctant to touch the red stuff that ran down his royal robes into a puddle in the dust. Blood? Yes, but not the King’s, for there was too much of it too quickly. The God’s shrine now wavered, as the carrying priests, uncertain how to respond, waited for instructions, which did not come. Ankhesenamun was looking about in confusion; then as if waking from a slow dream, the orders of the priests and the army suddenly broke ranks.

  I became aware of the girls screaming and crying, of Thuyu huddling into me, of Tanefert holding the other girls to herself, and of Nakht’s quick glance communicating his shock and astonishment at this sacrilegious act. On the roof terrace, men and women were turning to each other, their hands raised to their mouths, or appealing to the heavens for comfort in this moment of disaster. A tumult rose beneath us as the crowd began to panic, turning in confusion, pushing against the ranks of Medjay guards, trying to spill out on to the Avenue of Sphinxes, where they stampeded away from the scene of the crime. The Medjay guards responded by piling into the crowd, hitting anyone they could reach with their batons, dragging innocent bystanders by the hair, tackling men and women to the ground-where some were trampled by others-and herding as many people as they could capture together.

  I looked back down to the place the balls had been thrown from, and noticed a young woman’s face, tense with trepidation; I was sure she had been one of the people who had thrown the balls; I watched as she looked around, assessing whether she had been seen, before turning purposefully away in the middle of a group of young men who seemed to gather about her as if in protection. Something occurred to her, and she looked up and saw me watching her. She held my gaze for a moment and then hid herself under a sunshade, hoping to disappear into the pandemonium of the streets. But I saw a group of Medjay guards rounding up everyone they could catch, like fishermen,
and she was trapped, along with many others.

  The King and the Queen were already being carted with indecent haste back into the safety of the temple walls, followed by the hidden God in his gold shrine and the crowds of dignitaries who ducked and scurried, alert to their own anxieties. Then they all vanished through the temple gates, leaving behind an unprecedented pandemonium at the heart of the city. A few bladders of blood-weapons suddenly as powerful as the most sophisticated bow and the finest, truest arrow-had changed everything.

  I looked at the solid ground far below me, crowded with people, swirling in eddies of panic, and then for an instant what seemed solid changed to an abyss of dark shadows, and within it I saw the serpent of chaos and destruction, that lies coiled in secret beneath our feet, open its golden eyes.

  4

  I left the family with instructions to wait in Nakht’s house until it was safe for them to return home under the care of his household guards. Then I took Thoth with me, and stepped carefully out of the doorway into the street. Medjay officers swept up the last of the crowds, taking prisoner and binding any they suspected of wrongdoing. Shouts and cries came distantly through the thick, smoky air. The Avenue seemed like a vast papyrus scroll on which the true history of what had just happened was now recorded on the trampled sand, scribbled with the scuffed signs of footprints as people had fled, abandoning thousands of sandals. Litter drifted pointlessly. Gusts of hot air went around in angry circles, and then died out in a flutter of dust. Little groups gathered around the dead and injured, weeping and crying out to the Gods. The detritus of all the festival flowers, smeared and crushed, made an inadequate propitiatory offering to the god of this havoc.

  I examined the patches of spattered blood, now sticky and congealed in the sun to black puddles. Thoth sniffed delicately at the blood, his eyes flickering up at me. Flies fought furiously over these new riches. I carefully picked up one of the bladders, and turned it in my hand. There was nothing sophisticated about it, or about this act. But it was radical in its originality, and the crude effectiveness of its abomination; for the perpetrators had humiliated the King as well as if they had just hung him upside down and smeared him in dog shit.