Tutankhamun

by Nick Drake

  ‘Come up to the terrace,’ he said, handing special festival sweets to each of the children, like a benign sorcerer. ‘You are almost late, I don’t want you to miss anything on this special day.’ Sweeping the delighted Nedjmet into his arms, and followed attentively by the two older girls, he bounded up the wide stairs, until we reached his unusually spacious roof terrace. Unlike most people who use their tiny city roof space for sun-drying vegetables and fruits, and hanging out the washing, Nakht uses his larger quarters for more glamorous pursuits: for example, to observe the transit of the stars in the night sky, for this mystery is his deepest passion. And he uses it for his famous parties to which he invites people from all walks of life; and today a large crowd was milling about, drinking his excellent wine, eating the exquisite morsels of food from many trays set on stands everywhere, and chattering away under the protection of the beautifully embroidered awning, or under the sunshades held by patient, sweating servants.

  The view was one of the best in the city. The rooftops of Thebes spread away in every direction, an umber and terra-cotta labyrinth crammed with the reds and yellows of drying crops, unused and derelict furniture and crates, caged birds and other groups of people who had gathered on these lookout platforms above the chaos of the streets. As I gazed at the panorama, I realized how much the city had expanded in this last decade.

  Tutankhamun wished to be seen to demonstrate the royal family’s renewed loyalty and largesse to Amun, the God of the city, and the priests who owned and administered his temples, in the construction of new monuments and ever more ambitious and glorious temple buildings. For these, great numbers of engineers, artisans and especially labourers were required, whose shanties and settlements had sprung up around the temples, pushing the city’s boundary further into the cultivation. I looked north, and saw the ancient dark lanes of markets, pigpens, workshops and tiny houses of the ungovernable heart of the city bisected by the unnatural straight line of the Avenue of Sphinxes, built before I was born. To the west ran the glittering silver serpent of the Great River, and on either side the fields shone blindingly bright, like a carefully shattered mirror, where they had been flooded by the inundation.

  Much further away, on the west bank, beyond the strips of cultivation, lay the vast stone mortuary temples in the desert, and beyond them the secret underground tombs of the Kings in their hidden Valley. To the south of the temples lay the Royal Palace of Malkata with its suburb of administrators’ offices and homes, and in front of it the vast stagnant expanse of the Birket Habu lake. Beyond the city and its territories was the definitive border between the Black Land and the Red Land; there it is possible to stand with one foot in the world of living things, and the other in the world of dust and sand, where the sun vanishes each night, and where we send our spirits after death and our criminals to perish, and where the monsters of our nightmares roam and haunt us in that great, barren darkness.

  In front of us, running north to south between the great temple cities of Karnak and the Southern Temple, the Avenue was as empty as a dry riverbed, apart from the sweepers who were working fast to clear the last specks of dust and debris so that everything would be perfect. Before the vast painted mud-brick wall of the Southern Temple, phalanxes of Theban army units and crowds of priests in white robes were massed silently in their orders. After the lively chaos of the dock, here all was regimented order and conformity. Medjay officers held back the crowds that pressed together on all sides of the open ground and on either side of the Avenue, until they faded into the shimmering blur of distance; so many people, drawn together by the dream of a propitious glimpse of the God on this Day of Days.

  Nakht appeared at my side. For a moment we were alone.

  ‘Am I imagining it, or is the atmosphere strange?’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘It never used to be so tense.’

  The swallows, alone in their delight, zoomed about our heads. I discreetly produced the linen amulet, and showed it to him.

  ‘What can you tell me about this?’

  He looked at it in surprise, and read it quickly.

  ‘It is a Spell for the Dead, as even you must know. But it is a very particular one. It is said to have been written by Thoth, God of Writing and Wisdom, for the great God Osiris. In order for the spell to be ritually effective, the ink must be made from myrrh. Such a thing is usually reserved only for the funerals of the very highest of the high.’

  ‘Such as?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘High priests. Kings. Where did you find it?’

  ‘On the dead body of a lame boy. He was certainly no king.’

  Now it was Nakht who looked surprised.

  ‘When?’

  ‘First thing this morning,’ I replied.

  He pondered these strange facts for a moment, and shook his head.

  ‘I cannot yet make sense of that,’ he decided.

  ‘Neither can I. Except that I do not believe in coincidence.’

  ‘Coincidence is merely a way of saying we recognize a connection between two events, but cannot discover the meaning of that connection,’ he replied, concisely.

  ‘Everything you say always sounds exactly right, my friend. You have the gift of turning confusion into an epigram.’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, but it is a kind of tyranny with me, for I am far too neat for my own good. And life, as we know, is mostly chaos.’

  I observed him as he continued to ponder the linen and its strange spell. He was thinking something he would not tell me aloud.

  ‘Well, it is a mystery. But come now,’ he said in his peremptory manner, ‘this is a party, and there are many people here I wish you to meet.’

  He took me by the elbow and led me into the great, chattering crowd.

  ‘You know I can’t abide the great and the good,’ I murmured.

  ‘Oh don’t be such an inverted snob. There are many people here today who have remarkable interests and passions–architects, librarians, engineers, writers, musicians, and a few businessmen and financiers for good measure–for art and science also depend upon healthy investment. How is our culture to improve and grow unless we share our knowledge? And where else would a Medjay officer like you get to consort with them?’

  ‘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.r />
  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. ‘Remember 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.