Tutankhamun: The Book of Shadows rr-2

by Nick Drake

  ‘But at the same time we must not reveal anything of these objects. It is imperative we maintain strict silence on this matter,’ said Khay nervously.

  ‘My assistant will gladly help you assemble the information, and make the preliminary enquiries,’ I replied.

  Khay glanced at Khety, and was about to accept when Simut intervened.

  ‘The security of the royal quarters is my responsibility. I will have the information prepared immediately.’

  ‘Very well,’ I replied. ‘And I assume you will also include your own guards in the list of those with access to the area?’

  He was about to confront me, but I interrupted.

  ‘Believe me, I have no cause and no wish to doubt the integrity of your guards. But I’m sure you must agree we cannot afford to overlook any possibility, however unlikely or unacceptable.’

  Eventually he nodded in unhappy acquiescence.

  And so we parted.

  15

  ‘What a spectacle!’ said Khety, blowing out his cheeks. ‘That place reminds me of a particularly brutal school. There are always the big boys and the small boys. There are the ones who use their fists, and the ones who use their brains. There are the despots and the warriors and the diplomats and the servants. And there’s also always one strange child somewhere, off to the side, tormenting another poor creature slowly to death. That’s Ay,’ he said.

  The moonlit land drifted past as we sailed up the channel towards the Great River. I watched the dark water disappear under the keel for a little while before I spoke.

  ‘Did you notice on the underside of the lid, the markings? In particular the black circle? It’s some kind of language…’

  Khety shook his head.

  ‘What I noticed was the maker’s nasty imagination, and his appetite for blood and guts,’ he said.

  ‘But he is educated, highly skilled, and almost certainly a member of the elite. His fascination with blood and guts, as you put it, is because they represent something to him. They are symbols, rather than things in themselves.’

  ‘Try telling that to the girl with no face, or the boy with the shattered bones, or the new mystery man missing his own head,’ he replied, accurately enough.

  ‘It’s not the same thing. And are we right to assume we’re dealing with the same man in all cases?’ I asked him.

  ‘Well, just consider the connections, and the timing, and the style,’ he replied.

  ‘I have done. Similar imagery is deployed. The same obsessions with decay and destruction appear. And somewhere in all of this, I sense a love of beauty and perfection. There’s almost a sorrow to these actions. A kind of grotesque pity for the victims…’

  Khety looked at me as if I had lost my mind.

  ‘When you talk like this, I’m glad no one can overhear us. How can there be sorrow in slicing off a girl’s beautiful face? All I can see is the horrible, vicious cruelty. And anyway, how does that help us?’

  We sat in silence for a while. Thoth at my feet gazed up at the moon. Khety was right, of course. What faced us was possibly just madness. Was I imagining patterns where perhaps none existed? And yet still I sensed something. Underneath the killings and the brutality, under the threats of iconoclasm and destruction, was something deeper, and darker: some kind of search, or vision. But if we were right, and the same man was responsible for all of these events, then there was a bigger question to answer: why? Why was he doing this?

  ‘I also think whoever is responsible wants us to know he is an insider, in order to enhance the power of his threat. In fact, part of the game is to make us feel he is watching us all,’ continued Khety. And as he said this, I suddenly realized the gifts and deaths had another element in common: Rahotep, Seeker of Mysteries.

  We had just reached the jetty, and so rather than share it with him, I decided to let this odd thought sit at the back of my mind for a little while. It seemed too foolish and vain a thing to articulate.

  I bade farewell to Khety, and with Thoth padding ahead of me walked home through the curfew streets. I released the baboon to his bed, and entered the dark house. Its silence upbraided me for my absence. Sometimes I feel I do not belong in this house of young women and old men and babies. I remained in the kitchen for a while before retiring to sleep. By the light of the oil lamp in its niche, which Tanefert had left for my return, I poured myself a large cup of decent red wine from the Kharga oasis, and set a few dried figs and almonds on a dish.

  I sat down on the bench in my usual place beneath the statuette of the household God who knows I do not believe in him, and thought about families. It often seems to me that all troubles and all crimes begin with families. Even in our ancient stories, it is jealous brothers who kill each other, enraged wives who castrate their husbands, and furious children who avenge themselves on their culpable or innocent parents. I remembered how the girls still sweep from tender affection to murderous rage, from stroking each other’s hair to dragging it out with their bare hands, in an instant, over some cause so minor even they blush for shame when it is confessed.

  And so it is in marriage. We have a good marriage. If I have disappointed Tanefert by my lack of worldly success then she has disguised it well. She says she did not marry me for my fortune. And then she gives me one of her knowing smiles. But I know there are half-understood things between us that we keep in silence, as if words would somehow make them too painfully real. Perhaps it is so between all couples whose relations have survived for many years; the unnoticed influences of habit, and the perils of domestic tedium. Even the familiarity with each other’s bodies, once so obsessively desired, leads to an undeniable hunger for the surprise of a stranger’s beauty. The beauty and the contempt of familiarity…perhaps that is what I need to escape, when I relish the excitement of my work? The thought does not make me proud. I am now a man in the middle of the way of my life, and I am afraid of the middle way of it all…Why can I not be satisfied with everything the household God above me has granted?

  If it is so for ordinary people like us, then how much stranger it must be to be born into a family whose purpose is public, and whose privacy has to be defended and policed continuously like a terrible secret? For all their wealth and power, the children of the royal family and of most elite families are raised in an air devoid of human warmth. What do they talk about at dinnertime? Matters of state? Manners at a banquet? Do they have to hear, over and over, the heroic stories of their grandfather, Amenhotep the Great, who they know they will always fail to emulate? And if my girls argue over the possession of a comb, then how must it have been when siblings struggled for possession of treasure, power, and the Two Crowns?

  But I had seen two siblings who did not seem to be struggling for power. They seemed to be close, and supportive, perhaps bonded by their miseries under Ay’s control. The affection between them had seemed entirely genuine. But Ankhesenamun’s plan had one flaw. Tutankhamun was no warrior King. His virtues might be in his mind, but they clearly did not lie in physical prowess. Unfortunately the world requires its kings to demonstrate their vitality and virility in parades and protestations and adventures of power. Yes, heroic statues could be carved from stone, and impressive carvings could be set up in temples announcing Tutankhamun’s feats and campaigns and restorations of the old traditions and authorities. And Ankhesenamun’s own ancestry would help, for although she was still young she carried strong echoes of her mother-her beauty, her popularity, her independence of mind. And she had shown remarkable resilience this evening in confronting Ay. But the fact remained that at the heart of the great drama of state power was a flaw: the Image of the Living God was a clever, but frightened and physically not very heroic young man. That made both him and the Queen vulnerable. And whoever was tormenting the King with fear understood this.

  Tanefert was standing in the dark doorway, watching me. I moved to make room for her. She sat next to me, and nibbled on an almond.

  ‘Will there ever be a night when I know for sure
no one will knock on the door, to ask you to come away with them?’

  I put my arm around her and hugged her close, but this was not what she wanted.

  ‘Never,’ she said. ‘Never.’

  No words came to my aid to make this better.

  ‘I think I am used to it. I accept it. I know it is your work. But sometimes, like tonight, when we are celebrating, I want you here, and I want to know you will not leave. And that’s impossible. Because crime and cruelty and bloodshed are part of what people do to each other; and so you will always have more work. There will always be more knocks on the door in the night.’

  She looked away.

  ‘I always, always want to be here with you,’ I stammered.

  She turned to look me in the eye.

  ‘I’m afraid. I’m afraid one day you will not come back to me. And I could not endure that.’

  She kissed me sadly, rose, and walked away into the passage’s darkness.

  16

  The royal entourage entered the great Karnak council chamber, and all the noise and the shouting ceased, as at the start of a drama. From the clerestory windows the burning light of late morning blazed down into the stone chamber. A long whisper from those gathered together echoed among the great pillars, and died away.

  Tutankhamun and Ankhesenamun stepped together on to the dais, their small royal feet trampling the figures of the kingdom’s enemies that were painted on to the steps. They turned and sat on the thrones, in an intense circle of light. They looked like little Gods, and yet they also looked so young. Their immaculate hands closed over the carved lions’ claws of the thrones’ arms, as if they commanded wild nature itself. I noticed Ankhesenamun briefly touching her husband’s hand, as if for courage. In their white linen robes, and each wearing a magnificent collar emblazoned with a vulture’s head and spread wings, they glittered with glory.

  What a gallery of grotesques these men of the council were: ancient fellows, stooping, supported by servants, who had seen better days too many years ago, their faces thick with the curdled luxury and venality of their class, the sneer of superiority built into their expressions, whether into the wrinkles of the old or into the bland certainties of the young. Soft hands and sagging bellies. Fat cheeks trembling beneath almost effeminate mouths full, no doubt, of the stumps of rotten teeth. Committee men with quick, clever glances, assessing the constant shifts of politics, and the possible moves of the many-dimensioned game they played amongst themselves. And the tyrants: those stocky, angry bullies, always on the hunt for a victim, for someone to attack, and then to blame. I realized one of these last was staring at me. It was Nebamun, Head of the city Medjay. He looked wonderfully furious that I should be present at this elite gathering. I gave him a friendly nod, as if full of respect. I hoped he would appreciate the full depth of the irony in which it was given. Then I turned to look at the King. Finally, when there was absolute silence, Tutankhamun spoke. His voice was high and light, but it carried clearly in the stillness of the great chamber.

  ‘The construction of the Colonnade Hall in honour of Amun-Ra, King of the Gods, has been financed equally by this temple and by our own royal treasury. It is a sign of our unity of purpose. This glorious monument was begun by order of my grandfather, Amenhotep III. He would be proud to see what he conceived many years ago being finally brought to magnificent completion by his grandson.’

  He paused, and listened to the hush of expectation in the chamber.

  ‘The Two Lands are themselves a great building, a great construction, everlasting. And together we are building a new kingdom; and this new hall, the tallest and most awe-inspiring that stands, or has ever stood, upon the face of the earth, is testament to our triumphs and ambitions, and to our closeness to the Gods. I invite all of you, great men of the council of this great city, and of the Kingdom of the Two Lands, to join us in its commemoration, for you have participated in its making, and we wish to embrace you all within its glory.’

  His quiet speech was amplified in the hushed resonance of the chamber. Many nodded in agreement, approving of the way he had included them all within his vision.

  ‘I now invite Ay, our Regent, God’s Father, who has served us so well, to address you on further matters of state on our behalf.’

  Perhaps I was not alone in detecting an interesting new hint of tension in his subtle use of the past tense. Ay would surely have heard it, with his ear for the finest of nuances, but he gave no sign. He came forward slowly from the shadows, disguising the pain gnawing like a dog at his old bones, and took his rightful place on the step below the King and Queen. He masterfully surveyed the faces before him. His face was gaunt, his gaze pitiless and unflinching. Then, in his almost toneless voice, he began an extensive, stony, formal response to the King and to the council. I looked around; his audience leaned forward to catch every word, as if mesmerized not by the content but by his compelling quietness, which was so much more effective than demonstrative, empty noise. And then he turned to the real agenda of the day.

  ‘Following the ignominious and intolerable events at the festival, there has been a full investigation conducted with alacrity and efficiency by our city police.’

  He gazed out at the crowd of men until he discovered Nebamun, and nodded at him. The men surrounding him also nodded with respect. Nebamun instantly swelled with pride.

  ‘The ringleaders have confessed and have been impaled, together with their wives and children, and all the members of their extended families. Their bodies have been set out in public view on the walls of the city. Although no punishment is sufficient for the crime in question, an example has been made, and the problem has been eradicated.’

  He paused, and surveyed the councillors as if daring them to question this account of justice, and its punishments.

  ‘The Head of the city Medjay has persuaded me there will be no further public disturbances of this kind. I have taken his word on trust. His efficiency in the investigation of the unrest, and his discipline and commitment to arresting and executing those found guilty, have been exemplary. I only wish others laboured with the same alacrity. We hereby grant, in recognition of his achievement, a Gold Collar of Honour, as well as a doubling, with effect from this day, of the city Medjay budget under his command.’

  Nebamun made his way through the admiring crowd, accepting the approbation and acclaim, the nods and the pats, until he stood before the gaunt old man, and bowed his head. As Ay lowered the collar on to my superior’s fat neck, I experienced a wish to march over and relieve him of it. For who here knew of the injustices and the cruelties he had perpetrated upon innocent people for the sake of this moment, and this gold? Disgust swirled in my stomach. He looked up, made the gestures of gratitude to Ay, the King and the Queen, and then made his way back to his cronies. As he did so, he sent me a cold nod of victory. I knew he would use this honour to make my life even more difficult.

  Ay continued: ‘Order is everything. We have restored maat to the Two Lands. I will allow no rogue elements, no contending forces, to disturb the stability and security of our kingdom.’

  He spoke as if, by the authority of his saying so, it would be so; and as if he alone was the arbiter of that order.

  ‘Therefore, let us turn now to the matter of the Hittite wars. We have received reports of successes in battle, with new territory won, and existing towns and commercial routes sustained and their security improved. We expect to receive Hittite terms of negotiation. The old enemy of the Two Lands is in retreat!’

  There was a smattering of obsequious applause in response to this hollow claim. For everyone knew that the wars were far from won, and the battles with the Hittites, which were only the latest skirmishes in the endless friction in the borderlands and states that lay between the two kingdoms, could not be resolved so easily.

  Ay continued: ‘If there are no further matters to be discussed with my esteemed friends and colleagues, we may retire to the banquet.’

  He stared balefully a
t his audience. Silence reigned, and I saw that no one dared to contradict him.

  Everyone prostrated themselves slowly and unconvincingly, like a bunch of elderly performing monkeys, as he, followed by Ankhesenamun and Tutankhamun, descended from the dais.

  In the outer chamber, many trays had been set out on stands. Each one was piled with food: bread, rolls and cakes, all fresh from the bakery; roasted cuts of meat; roasted birds in thick glazes; roasted gourds and shallots; honeycomb; olives glistening in oil; fat bunches of dark grapes; figs, dates and almonds in astonishing abundance. All the good things of the land, heaped up in piles.

  What followed was an instructive spectacle. For these men, who had never worked the soil under the midday sun or butchered an animal with their own hands, rushed to the stands as if they were the desperate victims of a famine. Showing no shame or manners, they elbowed each other aside, pushing and shoving to reach the fragrant mountains of good things of the banquet. Delicacies that must have taken a very long time to prepare fell from their heaped dishes, and were squashed underfoot. They were so greedy they helped themselves, rather than waiting to be served. Despite the somehow appalling quantities of food, of which most of the population could only dream, they behaved as if they were utterly terrified that there would not be enough. Or as if no matter how much was placed before them, somehow they were afraid it would never be enough.

  Perhaps it was naive of me to compare the disgraceful luxury of this scene with the poverty, and the lack of water and meat and bread, that haunt the lives of those outside these privileged walls. But it was unavoidable. The noise reminded me of pigs at the trough. Meanwhile, as this feeding continued, the King and Queen, now seated on another dais, attended to a long queue of high officials and their retinues, each waiting to offer obsequious respects and to make their latest, no doubt self-serving, petitions.

  Nakht joined me.

  ‘What a repulsive sight,’ I said. ‘The rich as they really are: it is like a moral fable of greed.’