by Nick Drake
‘He would destroy us both if he knew.’
There was both determination and fear in her eyes.
‘And can you be certain he does not know?’
‘I cannot be certain of it,’ she said. ‘But he has shown no sign. He treats the King with contempt, and maintains him in a dependent childhood he should have outgrown. His authority depends upon our subservience. But he has made the most dangerous assumption: he underestimates us. He underestimates me. But I will not endure it any longer. We are the children of our father. I am my mother’s daughter. I have her inside me, calling to me, encouraging me, persuading me against my fear. The time has come for us to reassert ourselves, and our dynasty. And I believe I am not alone in not wishing to live in a world ruled by a man of such cold heart.’
I needed to think carefully.
‘Ay is very powerful. He is also very clever and very ruthless. You will need a powerful and remarkable strategy to outwit him,’ I replied.
‘I have had a great deal of time to study him, and the stratagems of his mind. I have watched him, and yet I think he has not seen me. I am a woman, and therefore I am beneath his notice. I am almost invisible. And–I have had an idea.’
She dared to look proud of herself for a moment.
‘I am sure you realize what is at stake,’ I said, cautiously. ‘Even if you manage to proclaim the King’s accession to power, Ay will almost certainly still hold the reins of its management. He controls many powerful factions and forces.’
‘Ay’s ruthlessness is notorious. But we are not without allies, and he is not without great enemies. And then there is his obsessive love of order. He would rather cut himself in half than risk a renewal of disorder in the world.’
‘I think he would always choose to cut a thousand others in half before himself.’
She smiled, for the first time.
‘Ay is more concerned with others who threaten his supremacy. Horemheb, the general, is waiting for his chance. Everyone is aware of this. And remember, we have one other great advantage over Ay. Perhaps the greatest advantage of all…’
‘And what is that?’
‘Time itself. Ay is old. His bones hurt. His teeth hurt. Time the destroyer has discovered him, and is taking his revenge. But we are young. Time is our ally.’
She sat there in all the simple beauty of her youth, dressed in the gold of the God of the Sun, smiling at the thought.
‘But time is also famously a betrayer. It has us all at its mercy.’
She nodded.
‘You are wise to say so. But our time is now. We must seize this moment, for our sakes, and for the sake of the Two Lands. If we do not, then I foresee an age of darkness ahead of us all.’
‘May I ask one last question?’
She smiled.
‘I heard you like questions. I see it is true.’
‘When will Tutankhamun announce his coronation?’
‘It will happen in the next few days. The ceremonial opening of the new Colonnade Hall has been rearranged. At that time the King will enter the innermost shrine. It is the most propitious moment for change.’
How clever and quick she was. The King would visit the Gods. An announcement after such an event would be perfect timing. It would carry the authority of the divine sanction. I felt a stirring of excitement, of the possibility of change–something I had not felt for a very long time. Perhaps this could work. But I knew my optimism was dangerous, and could betray me into carelessness; for now, we remained in the world of shadows.
‘You said you had something to show me.’
7
It was a small carving of Akhenaten and Nefertiti, together with their older daughters, worshipping the Aten, the sun disc, which had been the great symbol of their revolution. Many rays of light extended down from the disc itself, ending in divine hands which offered ankhs, the sacred symbol of life itself, to the strange little human figures whose arms were raised to receive the divine blessings. Despite the fluid, strange elongations of their limbs, done in the style of the period, it was recognizably a family portrait. The stone was not very old, for it had not been roughened or eroded around its edges by wind and time. It could only be from the city of Akhetaten.
There were several other striking things about it. First, the signs of the name of the Aten had been chiselled out. This was significant, for names are powers, and this desecration was intended as a threat to the soul of Ra himself. Second, the disc of the Sun, the great circle, the sign of life, had also been obliterated. But neither of these things was unexpected, for since the abolishment of the religion, such iconoclasm was common. What mattered more was that the eyes and the noses of all the royal family had been gouged out, so that they would have neither sight nor smell in the Otherworld. And I saw too that Ankhesenamun’s own royal names had been excised. This was a very personal desecration.
The carving had been discovered in a box earlier that day, within the royal quarters, during the hours of the performance of the festival. It bore a label offering the contents as a gift to the King and Queen. No one recalled its arrival, and there was no record of its presentation at the gate to the royal offices. It just seemed to have appeared from nowhere. The presentation box itself was unremarkable–a carved chest, probably made of acacia wood, of Theban design and craftsmanship. I rummaged through the straw in which it had been packed. No note. No message. The desecrated carving was the message. It would have taken some effort to acquire it, for Akhetaten, the City of the Horizon, although not entirely deserted, was slowly returning to the dust of its making, and almost no one went there any more. It had the reputation of a cursed and abandoned place now. Together with Khay, we stood pondering this enigmatic object.
‘And you think this stone is connected to what happened today at the temple, and that between them they constitute a threat against your lives?’ I asked.
‘Each event by itself would be considered alarming. But both in one day…’ she replied.
‘What happened today, and the appearance of this stone, are not necessarily connected,’ I said.
‘How can you be sure?’ said Ankhesenamun quickly.
‘The public event was a consciously political act of dissent. But this is more personal, and private.’
‘That sounds a bit vague,’ said Khay, airily.
‘The first was a crude gesture made by a group who had no other means by which to express their opposition and anger. They had no other way to approach the powers that be than to throw something at the King during a ceremony. For all the drama of its effect, that is hardly the action of powerful people. They are outsiders, without real influence, on the margins of society. This is different: it is more potent, more meaningful, and more sophisticated. It implies knowledge of writing, and of the power of names, and of the effect of iconoclasm. It has needed considerable preparation, as well as inside knowledge of the security of the royal quarters. Therefore we can assume this act has been committed by a member of the elite, and probably by someone within the hierarchies.’
‘What are you implying?’ said Khay, stiffly.
‘That it was delivered from within the palace.’
‘That is quite impossible. The royal quarters are carefully guarded at all times.’
‘And yet here it is,’ I said.
His narrow chin was raised now. He bristled with righteous indignation, like an angry bird. But before he could interrupt, I continued: ‘Also the perpetrator is very sure of what he is doing, for this has the intention of creating fear where it does the most damage. In the mind of the King, and those close to him.’
They both stared at me, disconcerted. I had probably said too much, by imputing to the King any kind of human weakness. But it was too late now for protocol and correctness.
‘…Or so the culprit would seem to hope. Can I assume no one knows anything of this?’
Khay looked as if he had eaten a sour fruit.
‘Ay has been informed. He requires to be informed of e
verything that happens within the royal quarters.’
No one spoke for a moment.
‘You will know what I am going to ask you,’ Ankhesenamun said, quietly.
I nodded.
‘You wish me to find out who is responsible for sending this object, and for its hostile desecration.’
‘Someone malicious has access to the royal quarters. They must be discovered. But we need more than that: I want you also to attend my husband and me as our–private protector. Our guardian. Someone to watch over us. Someone unseen by others…’
‘You have the Palace Guard,’ I said.
‘I cannot trust the Palace Guard.’
Each sentence of this conversation felt as if it was leading me deeper and deeper into a trap.
‘I am one man.’
‘You are the only man. And that is why I have called for you.’
Now the last of the doors that might still have led away from here and back to my own chosen life closed silently.
‘And what is your answer?’
Many answers jostled in my mind.
‘It will be an honour for me to fulfil the promise I made to your mother,’ I replied eventually. My heart was knotted tight at the consequence of these few words.
She smiled with relief.
‘But at the same time, I can’t abandon my family…’
‘Perhaps that is all to the good. This must remain a secret between us. So you should carry on normally, and then—’
‘But Ay knows me. Others will know of me. I cannot be here in secret. It would make my task impossible. You should simply say you are employing me, in addition to the Palace Guard, because of the threats you have received. Say I am independently assessing the internal security arrangements.’
She glanced at Khay, who considered the options, and then nodded once.
‘We accept this,’ she said.
The thought of the double life ahead made me anxious. And, I had to confess, excited. I had promised Tanefert I would not forsake the family. But I reasoned I would not be breaking that vow, for I would not need to leave the city to pursue this mystery. And there was little enough work for me at the Medjay headquarters, under Nebamun’s thumb. I wondered why I was persuading myself.
Khay was making the kind of noises that indicated it was time for us to depart. We offered our formal farewells. Ankhesenamun held my hands between her own, as if she wished to seal there the secret things that we had spoken about.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her eyes brimming with accomplished sincerity. And then she smiled, more openly and warmly this time, and instantly I glimpsed her mother’s face; not the beautiful public mask, but the warm, living woman.
And then the great double doors were silently opened behind us, and we retreated, backwards, bowing, until the doors closed again and we found ourselves in that endless, hushed corridor, with its many identical doors, like a scene from a nightmare.
I needed to piss, and I wanted to see whether the rumour about the water supply was true. Khay took me down a side corridor. ‘Third doorway on the left.’ He sniffed. ‘I will await you before the Queen’s chamber doors.’ He turned away.
I entered. The space was long and narrow with a stone floor on which were painted pools of water, with gold fishes swimming. A lattice drew in the cool scents of the night. A few tapers swayed in the breeze of my appearance. I did what was necessary. It sounded too loud, in the awful, almost religious, hush. I felt as if I were pissing in a temple. Then I washed my hands in the basin, pouring water from the jug. No miracles of plumbing here. I was drying my hands, when I sensed something–a prickle of the hairs on my neck, a blur of something across the polished surface of the copper mirror–and in an instant I turned.
The woman watched me knowingly, her clever eyes shining in the dim light, her black hair tied severely behind her head, her face angled and strangely gaunt, her robes like a dress of shadows.
‘Do you know me?’ she said, low and quiet.
‘Should I?’
She shook her head, disappointed.
‘I came to tell you my name.’
‘In the toilet?’
‘I am Maia.’
‘Your name means nothing to me.’
She clicked her tongue in annoyance.
I finished drying my hands.
‘I was the wet nurse to the King. He fed from me from the day he was born. Now I care for him as no one else can.’
She must have lived in the city of Akhetaten. She must have witnessed the life of Akhenaten, and the royal family, from close quarters. It was known the King’s mother was Kiya, who had been a rival royal wife to Nefertiti. But Kiya had disappeared. And then, later, Tutankhamun, son of Kiya, had been married to Ankhesenamun, the child of Nefertiti. The children of enemies, both fathered by Akhenaten, last survivors of their lines, married to each other. From a political point of view it was a great alliance. From theirs it must have been hell, for stepchildren rarely love each other, even less so when great power and treasure are at stake.
She nodded as she watched me work this out.
‘What do you wish to say to me?’
She glanced around, cautious even here.
‘Do not trust that girl. She has the blood of her mother.’
‘She is the Queen. As was her mother. Why should I not trust her?’
‘For all your power, you know nothing. You cannot see what is there. You are dazzled like a fool before gold.’
I felt the grip of anger at my throat.
‘Man of pride. Man of vanity. Think! Her mother disposed of her rival, Kiya, the mother of my King. That must not be forgotten. It must never be forgiven. It should be avenged. And yet you come like a dog to wait at her door.’
‘You sound like a marketplace storyteller. And you have no proof of anything you say. And even if you are right, it was all a long time ago.’
‘I have the proof of my eyes. I see her for what she really is. She is the child of her dynasty. Nothing changes. So I come to warn you. Her care is not for her husband. Her care is all for herself.’
I moved closer to her. She drew herself deeper into her robes.
‘I could have you arrested for this.’
‘Arrest Maia? The King will not allow it. He is my child, and I speak out from love for him. For no one else loves him. Without me he is alone in this palace. And besides, I know their names. I know the names of the shadows.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Shadows have powers,’ she replied, and with those enigmatic words she slid away along the dark wall, and vanished.
8
At the jetty, Khay gave me a papyrus of authority that would allow me to enter the Malkata Palace again, and to request an audience with him at any time. He told me he lived within the royal quarters. I should make use of him whenever I needed. Everything he said made it clear he was the pass to all gates, the man whose word was law, whose every whisper was heard in the ear of power. As I turned away, he offered me a leather bag.
‘What’s this?’
‘Consider it a small advance.’
I looked inside. It contained a good-quality gold ring.
‘Why is it a small one?’
‘I trust it will be adequate.’
His voice ground the words like grit under a millstone. He turned and left without waiting for any response I might have cared to offer.
I stood at the stern of the boat, looking backwards as it was rowed away, until the palace containing its lonely Queen and its strange, clandestine young King disappeared behind the ramparts of the great lake’s defences.
The boat left me discreetly in a far corner of the docks, and I walked back past the hundreds of moored boats, each with their painted eyes, shifting and knocking against each other on the surface of the river’s dark currents, their sails folded and stowed, and their crews and some of the dock workers sleeping on the decks and in the shadow of the heaps of goods, curled into their dreams like ropes into a coil. A
t the far end of the dock, in the dark, I noticed, to my surprise, two boats being unloaded of their cargo. No torches were lit to illuminate the work–but the moon’s light was almost adequate. The men worked silently, efficiently transferring a number of clay containers from the ships to a convoy of carts. I saw a tall, thin man walking among them, directing affairs. Smugglers, probably, for no one else dared to navigate the dangerous river in the dark. Well, it was none of my business. I had other concerns.
Walking is my cure for confusion; it is the only thing that makes me feel sane sometimes. I made my way back through the deserted streets, and now the night city felt like a vacant theatre, a construction of papyrus, shadows and dreams. I set myself to a proper consideration of everything this extraordinary day had laid before me. The festival ceremonials with their strangely repressed atmosphere; the astonishing act of sacrilege; the girl in the cells, and her rage, which had matured like a wine into something dark and powerful; this night meeting with the Queen of the kingdom–anxious with fear; the encounter with the King’s wet nurse. And perhaps most shocking of all, the dead boy, his cruelly shattered limbs, his appalling posture of perfection, arranged for death, and the linen spell. What did these things, the events of this day, have to do with each other? If, indeed, they had anything to do with each other–for I am given to finding patterns where, perhaps, none exist. Still, I sensed something–an intuition, elusive, just out of the reach of thought, like the glinting edge of a shard flashing for a moment among ruins–but then it was gone again. At this moment nothing added up. I know I love to consider the ways disparate things may be surprisingly related–more as in a dream or a poem than in reality. My colleagues ridicule me, and perhaps they are right, and yet somehow I do not find the mystery at the heart of human beings is ever as logically fathomable as they say it is. But then again, what use was that to me now?
Next, I considered the carving. Superficially, it expressed animosity towards the previous regime of the Aten, of which the King was the inheritor, survivor and (as had been made clear by his public pronouncements, acts and new buildings) now the destroyer. The iconoclasm, however, was not exceptional, and the interesting question was: why had it been delivered in such a deliberate, even intimate, manner to the King? More subtly, it expressed a severe threat: for the annihilation of the sign represented the annihilation of the reality. The King was also the Sun. And the Sun destroyed, and still worse the royal names destroyed, represented the destruction of the King and Queen in the afterlife. And there was something else: the sheer fury of those chisel-marks spoke of deep, almost mad, anger. It was as if each stab of the chisel was a stab into the King’s eternal spirit. But why, and who was responsible?
