by Nick Drake
‘It certainly does spoil one’s appetite,’ he agreed politely, although he seemed less revolted than I.
‘What did you make of Ay’s speech?’ I asked.
Nakht shook his head.
‘I thought it was quite appalling. It’s another travesty of justice. What a world we live in! But if nothing else it shows that even tyrants struggle to maintain their power, beyond a certain point. The truth is, a handful of executions won’t solve the overwhelming problems of this state. And although no one here would be caught dead saying so, everyone knows it. He’s bluffing, and that’s interesting because it means he’s in deep trouble.’
I caught a brief glimpse of Ay surrounded by courtiers; I saw the little drama of his arrogance and condescension, and their sycophantic, stuck, desperate smiles. Nebamun was with him, like a stupid dog gazing with adoration at its master. Ay saw us looking at him; he recorded the moment of information, and the expressions on our faces, in the cold tomb of his brain. He nodded at something Nebamun said, and the Medjay man then looked as if he was about to summon me over for the patronizing questioning I had been dreading.
But then, as the noise of the feasting and shouting and arguing reached its zenith, a sudden fanfare from a single long silver military trumpet silenced everyone; full mouths gaped open in surprise, quail and goose legs were stuck halfway from plate to mouth, and all turned to watch a lone young soldier march into the centre of the chamber. Ay seemed caught unawares. Something other than certainty glittered in his reptilian eyes. He had not been forewarned of this man’s arrival. A herald of the temple stepped forward and announced him as the messenger of Horemheb, General of the Armies of the Two Lands. The silence thickened.
The soldier made the correct prostrations and formulas of praise to Tutankhamun and Ankhesenamun. He did not acknowledge the presence of Ay, as if he did not even know who he was. He surveyed the now-silent chamber and its population of gourmands with the moral arrogance of youth, clearly disappointed by their venality. A touch of shame appeared in the faces of many of those still gorging themselves. Exquisite glazed pottery and carved stone dishes clattered lightly as they were quickly set down on the trays. The honoured councillors swallowed, wiped their fat lips, and cleaned their greasy fingers.
‘I have the honour to bear and to speak a message to the Great Council of Karnak, from Horemheb, General of the Armies of the Two Lands,’ he shouted, proudly.
‘We will hear this message in private,’ said Ay, moving quickly forward.
‘My orders are to address the general’s message to the entire gathering of the Council of Karnak,’ the messenger replied assertively, so that all could hear him. The old man snarled.
‘I am Ay. I am your superior, and the superior of your general. My authority is not to be questioned.’
Now the soldier looked uncertain. But Tutankhamun spoke, in his quiet, clear voice.
‘We wish to hear what our great general has to say.’
Ankhesenamun nodded in innocent agreement, but I saw the pleasure in her eyes at Ay’s dilemma. For he had no choice but to concede, in public, to the King. He hesitated, but then bowed ostentatiously.
‘Then speak at once,’ said Ay, turning away, the threat still in his voice.
The soldier saluted, unrolled a papyrus scroll and began to read the written words of his general.
To Tutankhamun, Living Image of Amun, Lord of the Two Lands, and to his Queen Ankhesenamun, and to the lords of the Council of Karnak. When rumour speaks, from out of its million mouths come the whispers of fear, the murmurs of speculation and the mutterings of suspicion. But truth speaks of things as they are. Nothing is changed in its mouth. And so when I, conducting campaigns in the plains of Kadesh, hear of public attacks upon the King, in the great city of Thebes, what am I to believe? Surely this is the work of rumour? Or is it, unthinkably, true?
The messenger paused, uncomfortably. He was nervous. I did not blame him.
The Two Lands are under the supreme command of Ay, in the name of our lord, Tutankhamun. So what need have I for alarm? But then is it rumour or truth that speaks to me of other conspiracies upon the King’s person within the security of the palace itself?
Shocked at this new open accusation, everyone looked at Ay and the royal couple. Ay began to respond, but Tutankhamun, with unexpected authority, raised his hand and silenced his Regent. The audience was now entirely attentive to these astonishing new developments. Then the King nodded at the soldier, who, conscious of the hazardous and ominous nature of what he was committed to read, continued implacably, quickening the rhythm of his delivery.
So we have enemies without, and enemies within. The Hittites have lately renewed their assault upon the rich ports and cities of the confederacy of Amurru, including Kadesh, Sumur and Byblos, and we are struggling to defend them. Why? Because we lack resources. We lack troops. We lack sufficient weaponry. We find ourselves in the invidious position of being unable to support and encourage our crucial alliances in the region. I am ashamed to confess this, and yet truth demands it of me. It is said that in our time the business of our kingdom’s foreign affairs has been neglected in favour of the building of great structures in the name of the Gods. Nevertheless, I extend to the King and to the council the offer of my presence and my services in the city of Thebes in this time of crisis. If it is imperative for me to return, I shall do so. We face the enemy on our borders. But those enemies within are an even greater threat. For perhaps they have insinuated themselves in the very heart of our government. For what else are these threats against the King, our great symbol of unity? How is it possible that we are so weak that these unprecedented attacks can be made? My messenger, whose safe passage I confer into your hands, will deliver to me your reply.
All eyes turned upon Ay. His patrician face showed no reaction. He flicked his hand commandingly at one of the scribes, who hurried forward with his ivory palette and reed pens, and as Ay began to speak, he began to write.
We welcome the communication of the honourable general. Hear our reply, in the name of Tutankhamun, Lord of the Two Lands. One. All the troops and weapons requested were assigned to this campaign. Why was this not sufficient? Why have you still not returned in a victory parade, with bound prisoners, and chariots stacked high with the cut-off hands of the enemy dead, and with vanquished leaders hung up in cages from the prows of our ships to offer to the King? Two. The general makes unfounded allegations against the competence of the city and the palace to manage their own affairs. He has listened to rumour and believed its lies. Even so, on spurious reasons he has offered to abandon his first responsibility to his position in the battle for Kadesh. It is a foolish, irresponsible and unnecessary offer. It might be understood, although I hesitate to call it so, as an act of abdication of responsibility and, indeed, of disloyalty. The imperative is victory, and in that you are clearly failing. Perhaps that is why your offer has come to us at this very moment. Your instructions, from Tutankhamun, Lord of the Two Lands, are to remain at your battle stations, and fight, and win. Do not fail.
The only sound in the chamber was that of the scribe’s reed pen brushing across the surface of the papyrus scroll as he recorded Ay’s reply. He passed it to Ay for his seal. Ay scanned it, rolled it up, tied it and then added his seal to the cord, before passing it to the soldier, who bowed his head as he accepted it, exchanging it for the one he had carried so far.
And then Ay leaned forward and spoke quietly into the soldier’s ear. No one could hear what he said, but the effect of it was very clear on the man’s face. He looked as if he had heard the curse of his own death laid upon him. I had by now conceived a considerable sympathy for him. He saluted and left the chamber. I wondered whether he would live to deliver the reply.
But Ay’s words, no matter how forceful, could not put back together what was now broken. For the message of the general had had the effect of shattering the illusion of political certainty. And the low roar of excited and dismayed discussion tha
t began as soon as the soldier left the chamber was the sound of its building blocks collapsing into rubble. I saw Ankhesenamun discreetly touch her husband’s hand, and Tutankhamun unexpectedly rose to his feet. He looked for a moment to be uncertain why he had done so. But then he grasped the moment, commanded the trumpeters, whose fanfare silenced the hall again, and spoke.
‘We have heard all that the great general has confided in us. He is wrong. The Great Estate is sure and strong. A kingdom as pre-eminent, as sublime and as eternal as the Two Lands draws envy and enmity. But any attacks will be dealt with swiftly and surely. No dissent will be tolerated. As for the “conspiracy” to which the general alluded, it is nothing but a distraction. Those responsible are being investigated, and they will be eliminated. We have placed our trust in this man.’
Suddenly every man turned to look at me, the stranger in their midst.
‘This is Rahotep. He is Chief Detective within the city Medjay. We appoint him to investigate the accusations of the great general regarding our personal security. He has his orders. He has the powers we invest in him to follow his investigation, regardless of where it may lead him.’
There was absolute silence in the chamber. Then he smiled, and continued: ‘There is much business of state to be accomplished. The work of the day has just begun. I look forward to seeing you all at the dedication of the Colonnade Hall.’
For the second time on that day, Ay was caught out. Ankhesenamun gave him a brief look. Something in her spirit seemed to have taken courage from these moments, and her eyes revealed it. A spark of determination was now kindled there, which had been dormant for too long. As she processed out of the chamber, she glanced at me with a tiny smile on her lips. Then she was gone, gathered up by the procession of guards and taken away, back to the palace of shadows.
Nebamun wasted no time in loping over to me. He was perspiring. His linens were damp, and the little red veins beneath his bleary eyes flickered almost imperceptibly. His breath came short as he held up one fat little finger in my face.
‘Whatever you’re up to, Rahotep, remember one thing. Keep me informed. I want to know everything that’s happening. No matter what powers the King gives you, do this, or else, believe me, when this is all over, and your little private assignment is concluded-assuming you get anywhere at all, which I doubt-you’ll have to come and see me. Come and see what’s left for you at the city Medjay.’
I smiled and bowed.
‘All glory is brief, and it’s a long way back down to the bottom of the heap. I’m going to be busy. I’ll write you a report.’
Then I turned and walked quickly away, knowing with these words I was risking my future for the sake of my contempt, but hating him too much to care.
17
As I left the temple gate, Khety appeared suddenly out of the crowds assembled behind the security lines.
‘Come quickly,’ he said, breathlessly.
‘Another victim?’
He nodded.
‘But this time the killer was disturbed at his work. Hurry.’
I hesitated. I was supposed to attend the interviews of all those who had access to the royal quarters, with Simut. But I knew I had no choice.
We ran through the crowds to reach the house, which was in a distant quarter of the city. Everything and everyone moved too slowly; people turned or stopped right in our tracks, mules loaded with mud-bricks or rubbish or vegetables blocked narrow passages; all the old people of the city seemed to be taking for ever to cross the ways-so we dodged and darted, shouting for precedence, pushing and throwing fools, workmen, officials and children aside, leaving a wake of aggravation and disturbance behind us.
The young man lay on his couch. He was about the same age as the first boy, and with a similar infirmity. The bones of his body had been shattered as well. His skin was horribly bruised from the attack. But this time, over his head, the killer had fitted the scalp, the long, black, dull hair, and the now-distorted face, like a leather mask that had melted in great heat, which must have belonged to the young girl. The cut edges of the skin of her face had been sewn around the top of the boy’s own face with an exemplary precision-but he had not had time to finish his gruesome work. The dead girl’s lips, dried out and curling up, opened around the small, dark hole which would once have been her mouth. I put my ear carefully to it. And then I heard it: the faintest respiration, slight as a feather brushing my face.
Very carefully, very gently, and as quickly as possible, I used my knife to snip away at the stitches and eventually, carefully removed the hideous mask. Sticky fluids and traces of blood had helped the girl’s face adhere to the boy’s, and I had to tease it off; the two faces peeled apart reluctantly. His own face was very pale, as if bloodless, and embroidered now with spots of blood that sprang from the killer’s needlework. More terribly, where his eyes should have been were empty, bleeding sockets. I passed Khety the girl’s face, for even in this lamentable state it was still an identity-something to go on.
Then suddenly the boy drew a tiny inward breath, more like a small cry. He tried to move, but the shattered bones made no sense; and then a flash of pain arched through him.
‘Try to stay still. I am a friend. Who did this to you?’
But he could not speak, for the bones of his jaw were broken.
‘Was it a man?’
He struggled to comprehend me.
‘A young man or an old man?’
He was trembling now.
‘Did he give you a powder or a juice to ingest?’
Khety touched my shoulder.
‘He cannot understand you.’
Now the boy began to moan, a low, mournful sound like an animal in appalling distress. He was suffering the memory of what had happened to him. Drawing breath seemed suddenly impossibly painful. Instinctively I touched his hand with mine, but the moan became a terrible wail of pain. Desperate for him not to die, I moistened his lips and brow with a little water. This seemed to revive him. He opened his mouth a fraction, as if pleading for more water, which I gave him. But then he slipped from consciousness. Horrified, I leant down to listen again at his mouth and heard-thanks be to the Gods-the lightest of breath. He was still alive.
‘Khety-we need a doctor. Now!’
‘But I don’t know any doctors,’ he stammered.
I racked my brains. And then suddenly it came to me.
‘Quickly, we have to carry him to Nakht’s house. We don’t have much time.’
‘But how…?’ he began, his palms waving uselessly in the air.
‘On his bed, you idiot, how else?’ I shouted back at him. ‘I want him kept alive, and Nakht can do it.’
And so, to the amazement of the boy’s family, I covered the boy’s body with a linen cloth as if he was already dead, and the two of us took up the bed-which was light enough, and his frail weight added very little to our burden-and made our way through the streets. I went first, shouting at everyone to make way, and trying to ignore the curious faces of the people, all pushing to get a glimpse of what we were carrying, and what was causing such a stir. But when they saw the linen over the body they assumed we carried a corpse, and backed away, losing interest quickly. Their reaction was very different to Nakht’s, when I revealed the damaged body beneath the cloth to him. Khety and I were drenched in sweat, and desperate for a long draught of cool water; but my priority was the boy. I had not dared to check on his state in the street, only praying that the inevitable rocking and jostling of the bed in our hands would not cause him too much agony. I hoped he was only unconscious, but not, please the Gods, already in the Otherworld.
Nakht ordered the servants to carry the boy into one of his chambers, and then he examined him carefully. Khety and I watched him nervously. Once he had concluded, he washed his hands in a bowl, and nodded sternly to us to join him outside.
‘I have to confess, my friend, this is the strangest gift you have ever brought me. What have I done to deserve it? A boy’s lame body, the bo
nes shattered, the face so curiously scored by needle-holes, and the eyes removed? I am at a loss, a complete loss, to understand whatever persuaded you to bring him to me, like a cat bringing home the remains of her kill…’
He was angry. And so, I realized, was I.
‘And to whom else should I bring him? Without expert attention he will die. But I have to keep him safely, until he is well. He is my only lead. Only he can tell me who did this to him. He might be able to help us identify his attacker. He will recover?’
‘He has a dislocated jaw. His arms and legs are both broken in several places. I fear infection in the cuts around his face and in the eye-sockets. And among all the great mysteries of the cruelties that have been so precisely inflicted upon this boy’s body, why does he have the marks of needles upon his face?’
I pulled the girl’s face from my bag and showed it to him. He turned away in revulsion.
‘We found this sewn on to his face. It belongs to a body we also found. The face belongs to a girl. Her name was Neferet.’
‘Please, put that thing away. I simply can’t talk to you while you are thrusting the remains of a human face at me,’ he cried.
I saw his point. I passed the face to Khety, who took possession of it reluctantly, fastidiously placing it back in the bag.
‘Now can we talk?’
He nodded.
‘I am not accustomed, as you are, to the more brutal acts of our kind. I have never been in battle. Never been robbed or attacked. Never even been in a fight. I abhor violence, as you very well know. The thought of it makes me sick. So forgive me if what, for you, is all in a day’s work, is for me something more of a profound shock.’
‘I forgive you. But tell me now: can you save him?’
He sighed.
‘It is possible, provided there is no infection. Bones we can set. Blood we cannot heal.’
‘And when might I be able to speak to him?’
