Tutankhamun: The Book of Shadows rr-2

by Nick Drake

  ‘Do I look well?’ he asked, almost shyly. ‘I must look well. It is many years since I last visited Memphis. And also time has passed since I met Horemheb. He must see how I have changed. I am no longer the boy under his tutelage. I am King.’

  ‘Lord, you are unmistakably the King.’

  He nodded, satisfied, and then, like a great actor, he seemed to centre himself before he stepped into the sunlight, his face beneath the crowns assuming the absolute conviction it had lacked only moments before. Something about the intensity of the moment, and its demands, brought out the best in him. He thrived on an audience. This would surely be his biggest yet. The handler passed the King his young lion, on its leash, and then he stepped up and forward into the light of Ra to a roar of acclaim. I watched as he adopted the ritual posture of power and victory. As if on cue, the young lion roared. The crowd, who could not see the way the beast was prodded to his heroic roar by a spear’s sharp point applied by his diligent keeper, called out an even greater enthusiastic response, as if it were now not many individuals, but one great beast.

  The spectacle that greeted us upon the quayside was a carefully orchestrated and deliberately overwhelming display of the military might of this capital. As far as the eye could see, stretching back in countless perfectly drilled lines, division after division of soldiers, each one named after the patron God of the district from which it drew its conscripts and officers, paraded in the shimmering arena. Between them were thousands of prisoners of war, manacled and roped together by the neck, together with their women and children-Libyans in cloaks with their long side-locks and goatees, Nubians in their kilts, and Syrians with their long pointed beards, all forced into the posture of submission. Hundreds of fine horses-booty from the wars-danced on their elegant hooves. Envoys from each subjugated state fell to their knees, pleading for clemency, for the breath of life for their people.

  And there, at the centre of everything, was a single figure, standing in the sun beside an empty throne, as if all of this display belonged to him. Horemheb, General of the Armies of the Two Lands. I knew him from his ramrod posture as he waited, still as a dark statue.

  Tutankhamun took his time, like a god, keeping everyone waiting while he continued to enjoy the acclaim of the multitude; meanwhile the old ambassadors were tottering in the heat, the crowds were gasping for the water-and fruit-sellers, the city officials were sweating in their regalia. And then finally, accompanied by Simut and a phalanx of royal guards, he deigned to descend the gangplank. The crowds renewed their cries of acclaim and loyalty, and the dignitaries made ritual gestures of respect and homage. For his part the King made absolutely no sign of recognition or response, as if all of this pageant was somehow insubstantial and unimportant to him.

  On a quiet signal from Simut, the guards fanned out around the King, organized as dancers, their arms and bows presented, as he stepped down on to the hot stones of the city. Simut and I scanned the crowds and the rooftops for any signs of trouble. Horemheb waited for the right moment; then he respectfully offered the throne to the King. But his every arrogant gesture made the King seem the less powerful man. Something about the cold expression on Horemheb’s face even seemed to keep the flies away. He turned to the silent arena. An obedient silence fell. He shouted to every one of the thousands of men present.

  ‘I speak to his majesty, Tutankhamun, Lord of the Two Lands. I bring chiefs of every foreign territory to beg life from him. These vile foreigners who do not know the Two Lands, I lay them beneath his feet for ever and eternally. From the furthest reaches of Nubia to the most distant regions of Asia, all are under the command of his great hand.’

  Then Horemheb carefully set his knee to the ground, bowed his sleek head with arrogant humility, and waited for the King to acknowledge his formulaic words. The moments dripped by like the water in a clock, as Tutankhamun left him to stoop in public deference for as long as possible. I was impressed. The King was taking command of the occasion. The crowd remained hushed, alert to this consummate confrontation played out in the language of appearance and protocol. Finally, judging the moment precisely, the King laid a gift of five magnificent gold collars around the general’s neck. But he managed to make them look like a burden of responsibility, as much as a gift of respect. Then he raised the general, and embraced him.

  The King moved forward, to accept the greetings and obeisance of the other officials as necessary. Finally he ascended the throne on the dais, under the canopy that gave some relief from the burning heat of the sun on the stones. At a command from Horemheb, every division and every group of war prisoners was then paraded before him, accompanied by trumpets and drums. It took hours. But the King maintained his rigid posture, and his distant gaze, even though the sweat was running from under the crowns, and dampening his tunic.

  We travelled by chariot into the central city. Simut and I went first, ahead of Tutankhamun, who was flanked by his running guards, their weapons flashing in the high sunlight. I noticed the buildings and headquarters here were like those in Thebes, if far greater in number: the town houses were built upwards for lack of space, and down side passages were the humbler dwellings of those who laboured in the services of the army, the central institution of this city; single rooms which were workroom, stable and home in one, opened directly on to the messy streets. The royal roads and the paved surfaces of the sacred ways, which were lined with sphinxes, obelisks and chapels, were kept clear of onlookers, and so we travelled quickly towards the Palace of Memphis. Over the harsh noise of the wheels on the rutted paving stones, Simut pointed out the famous sights: to the north, the vast old mud-brick construction of the old Citadel, the White Walls, which gave their name to the district, and the Great Temple of Ptah to the south, with its own great enclosure wall. A temple canal ran south all the way to the outlying temple district of the Goddess Hathor. Other canals flashed into view as we passed, linking the river and the port to the central city.

  ‘There are at least forty-five different cults in the city, and each has its own temple,’ he shouted, proudly. ‘And out to the west is the Temple of Anubis.’ I imagined the embalmers, the coffin-makers, the makers of masks and amulets, and the writers of the Books of the Dead, all the specialized craftsmen who clustered into such a quarter to conduct the complex business of that powerful God, Guardian of the Necropolis and of the Tombs against evildoers. But there would be no time for tours of curiosity.

  Simut was eager we should arrive ahead of the King; huge crowds had already gathered in the tight spaces of the passageways and streets, to catch a glimpse of his arrival at the great Palace of Memphis, but they were not allowed near the open area in front of the palace gate towers. Nevertheless this was a security nightmare, for it was packed with foreign and local dignitaries and officials and elite men. Simut’s advance guard were swiftly ready; silently and efficiently taking up positions and peremptorily ordering people out of the way to create a path of safety and security for the King. They knew exactly what they were doing, and moved as one in patterns they must have practised and performed many times before. Their brusquely immaculate behaviour left no one, even the Memphis palace guards themselves, in doubt of their authority. Royal archers followed, their great bows drawn and aimed up at the rooftops.

  Then the temple trumpets sounded from the walls as the King arrived, surrounded by more guards. Their tribute, the clamour of the crowds, the bellowed orders of the commanders, were deafening; but suddenly the royal cavalcade passed from the dusty heat and light and cacophony of the streets into the cool silence of the first reception hall. At once we were all gathered in relative security. Here, yet more high officials awaited the King’s arrival. This was the first time I had seen him closely in a more social situation. Whereas in the palace he had sometimes seemed like a lost boy, now he held himself like a king: his posture upright and dignified, his elegant face calm and composed, his expression seeking no approval in anxious smiles, nor expressing his power in haughty arrogance. He had a
charisma that came from his unusual looks, his youth, and his other quality that I remembered from when he was a boy: that of an old soul in a young man’s body. Even the gold walking stick which he carried everywhere became an enhancement of his personality.

  Simut had warned me there had been a great deal of political pressure from General Horemheb’s office for the King to be accommodated overnight in the palace on this royal visit. But Ay’s office had insisted the King attend the necessary functions, and then return to the ship for a late departure. It was the right decision. Memphis was dangerous. The city was the heart of the administration of the Two Lands, but it was also the location of the army’s headquarters and barracks; unfortunately the loyalty of the army could not be entirely trusted at this delicate time, especially under Horemheb.

  The great chamber echoed with the noise of hundreds of elite men-diplomats, foreign officials, wealthy businessmen, high-ranking officers-bragging, barking and yapping self-importantly at each other as they manoeuvred among the crowds, each working hard to stand near, or speak to and impress, their superiors, or to denigrate their equals and lessers. I moved through the noisy crowds, and kept near to the King. I saw how he nodded as each person in turn was introduced by his two officers, and then dealt with each petitioner and dignitary, managing the brief moments of the interview, responding elegantly to praises and offerings, and giving a sense to each man that he was important, and would be remembered.

  Then I suddenly noticed Horemheb standing in the shadow cast by one of the columns. He was being addressed, and evidently bored witless, by some fatuous official, but his eyes were focused, with the poised attention of a leopard, on the King. For a moment he looked like a hunter with his prey. But then the King caught his glance, and Horemheb smiled quickly. Then he moved forward towards the King, and as he did so his face, caught in a dramatic shaft of light, suddenly turned white as marble. Accompanied by the young officer who had proclaimed his letter in Thebes, he made his way deliberately through the crowd. I moved closer.

  ‘It is an honour to receive your majesty again in Memphis,’ said the general formally.

  Tutankhamun smiled back, with a slightly cautious affection.

  ‘This city holds many good memories for me. You were a good and trusted friend to me here.’

  The King looked delicate and slight next to the confident, well-built, older general. Those attending this dialogue, including the young secretary, waited in silence for Horemheb to continue.

  ‘I am glad you thought so. I was then privileged with the titles of deputy and military tutor. I remember well it was me you consulted on many matters of state and policy, and to me you would listen. It was once said, I could pacify the palace…when no one else could do so.’

  He smiled without opening his mouth. The King smiled back, still more cautiously. He had sensed the undercurrent of hostility in Horemheb’s tone.

  ‘Alas, time passes. It now all seems so long ago…’

  ‘Then you were a boy. Now, I salute the King of the Two Lands. All we are, and all we have, is held in your royal power.’ And he bowed curtly.

  ‘We hold your affection in high esteem. We treasure it. We wish to honour all your works and deeds…’

  The King let the sentence die away.

  ‘Here in Memphis, you will have noticed many changes,’ continued Horemheb, on another tack.

  ‘We hear you have many projects. We hear you are building a great new tomb for yourself, in the Saqqara necropolis,’ replied the King.

  ‘It is just a small, private tomb. Its construction and decoration amuses my rare private hours. It would be an honour to show it to you. The wall carvings are very fine.’

  He smiled, wryly, as if at a little private joke, but his eyes were distant.

  ‘What do these carvings depict? The General Horemheb’s many military triumphs?’

  ‘The glorious campaigns in Nubia, led in triumph by your highness, are described there,’ replied the general.

  ‘I remember your glorious and triumphant direction of those campaigns in my name.’

  ‘Perhaps his majesty forgets his own distinguished contribution to their glory.’

  ‘I forget nothing,’ replied the King, directly.

  There was a little silence in which Horemheb considered his response. There was something of the crocodile about him; his eyes above the surface, ever watchful, the rest of him concealed in the darkness below.

  ‘The King must be hungry and thirsty after his journey. He must eat well before he departs on his royal hunting expedition,’ he said, almost in the tone in which one would address a child. Then he clapped his hands, and instantly servants appeared with exquisite food on beautiful pottery dishes. They were respectfully offered on trays to the King, but he ignored them, and I realized I had not seen him eat or drink anything here.

  Horemheb issued a peremptory order to the young officer. He disappeared, and we waited, neither Horemheb nor the King speaking to break the stalemate of silence. I wondered what Tutankhamun thought now of this man whom he had called his good father.

  The officer returned, leading a high-status Syrian captive, his hands tied harshly behind his back, forcing him to bow in the traditional posture of the captured enemy. The man, who was in a poor state, his head crudely shaven and marked with vicious cuts, his limbs spindle-thin, stared at the floor with the rage of humiliation in his proud eyes. The officer took one of the dishes of food, and offered it to Horemheb, who forced open the jaws of the captive, as if he were an animal. The man was afraid, but he knew he had no choice; and he was starving in any case. He chewed cautiously, and then fearfully swallowed. We all waited to see whether he would double up and collapse from the effects of poison, or just from bad cooking. Of course, no such thing occurred, but Horemheb made him test every dish being offered. Finally he was led away, where he was made to stand facing the wall so that the King could see he suffered from no slow-acting poisons. But the effect of this strange performance was astonishing, for Horemheb made it feel as if the King himself could be that force-fed prisoner.

  ‘We are well aware of the perils and outright threats that the King has suffered, even in his own palace. Now you may, if you wish, eat from our banquet in absolute confidence,’ said the general, intently.

  And everyone watched as the King carefully took a tiny portion of duck meat, ate it slowly, smiled and said: ‘Our appetite is satisfied.’

  This strange little episode was, as it turned out, a minor skirmish preparing the way for the speeches that followed. As Horemheb stepped up on to a dais the whole chamber fell quickly to a hush. Mouthfuls of food were swallowed, greasy fingers washed clean in fingerbowls, and the servants vanished. The general stared out at the gathering. His handsome face, which seemed never to have indulged in the luxury of self-expression, assumed the lineaments of authority: a certain jut of the chin, and a composed, imperturbable and superior regard. He waited for absolute silence. Then he spoke, not fluently, but with force and conviction, punctuated with assertive gestures that were somehow rehearsed and awkward, and an occasional, almost mocking humour which I sensed could turn, in an instant, into viciousness. He formally welcomed the King and his retinue, and pledged all assistance from the city’s resources-which he enumerated at great length, just to remind us all of the powers and riches he could call upon-to his security and pleasure during what he called ‘this brief visitation’ on the way to the royal hunt. He managed to make it sound like a complaint rather than a compliment, and I watched the King’s face for his reaction. But he continued to stare ahead.

  Then Horemheb continued: ‘At this time of heightened insecurity in the Two Lands, the army remains the force of order and justice, defending the great, eternal values and the traditions of our kingdom. We are successfully prosecuting our territorial interests in the lands of Amurru. Wars are a necessity, to sustain our pre-eminence and authority in the world, and to extend our boundaries. Winning those wars is my responsibility. The perfectio
n of order and justice which our state exemplifies must be maintained and supported, and therefore we petition the King and his advisers to release further funds for this great aim, to extend the army’s divisions, and to ensure our glorious success, which will certainly richly repay the investment we now formally request.’

  He paused. I looked around the great chamber. Everyone was paying full attention now, waiting for the King to respond. The audience gave him absolute silence, so as to hear every quiet word.

  ‘War is the state of mankind,’ he began, eventually. ‘It is a great and noble cause. We support and maintain the army of the Two Lands. We acclaim its general. His aim is our aim: the triumph of our order through the rightful exercise of power. We have maintained our support throughout these long years of battle, with confident belief in our general, who continues to assure us of a successful conclusion to these wars. But of course there are many demands upon our great treasury. It is the responsibility of the King and his advisers to balance these many, and sometimes conflicting, requests. Maat is the divine order of the universe, but in our cities and our lands that divine order is maintained by proper finance, according to the contributions required of everyone. Therefore we ask the general of the Two Lands to explain and justify, before all of us assembled here, why the army now requests further subsidy, given our already lavish support.’

  Horemheb stepped forward, as if prepared for this move.

  ‘Our request is not predicated only upon the successful conclusion to our foreign wars. Its purpose is to reinforce the presence and the power of the army at home. For it has become clear there are disruptive forces at work within our own society. Indeed, from all reports, these forces have found their way to the very heart not just of our temples and our offices of government, but even of our royal palace itself. We wonder how such acts of treachery can possibly have been permitted to come to pass.’