by Nick Drake
‘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 at 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.’
‘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, a
nd 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 that 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.’
