by Nick Drake
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 bones 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?’
‘My friend, this boy has been literally shattered. It will take weeks, months, for these injuries to heal. His jaw is a mess. If he lives, he will need time to recover from his blindness. It will be some time, a month at the very least, before he can speak. This is assuming his mind remains undamaged by the experience, and that he is capable of articulation and comprehension.’
I gazed down at the boy. He was my only hope. I wondered what he could say to me, and whether, in a mo
nth, it would all be far, far too late.
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Khety quietly, as we stood outside Nakht’s house. He looked shocked.
‘Have you got a lead on Neferet’s place of work?’
‘I’ve narrowed it down to a couple of places. We should visit them,’ he replied.
He showed me a list of establishments.
‘Fine. When?’
‘After sunset would be best. When they get busy.’
I nodded.
‘Meet me at the first one. Bring that with you,’ I said, meaning the face which he had replaced in its leather bag.
‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.
‘I feel like going home and drinking a bottle of decent red wine, and feeding my son his dinner. But I have to return to the palace. The interviews of all those who have priority access to the royal quarters took place this afternoon. I should have been there.’
I glanced up at the afternoon sun, which was now descending to the west. I might already have missed everything.
‘Do you want me to come, too?’
I shook my head.
‘I want you to go back to the boy’s family and explain we’re taking care of him. Tell them he’s alive, and we have good hopes. And above all make arrangements for the boy to be guarded. Set a pair of guards inside the entrance to Nakht’s house at all hours. We don’t want anyone to hurt the boy any more. We can’t risk losing him.’
‘What happens if he dies?’ asked Khety quietly.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Pray to the Gods he lives.’
‘You don’t believe in Gods,’ he replied.
‘This is an emergency. Suddenly I am reconsidering my point of view.’
18
I tried to stop myself breaking into a run as I made my way, by memory now, towards the royal quarters. By day, I noticed more people: groups of officials, foreign ministers, delegates and potentates being entertained in various chambers. I showed my permissions to the guards, who scrutinized them carefully before allowing me to pass. At least the security had improved.
‘Take me to Simut. At once,’ I commanded.
He and Khay were waiting in Khay’s office. As I entered, they both looked at me sourly.
‘I am sorry. I had another emergency.’
‘What emergency could possibly be greater than this one?’ wondered Khay, airily.
Simut silently handed me a papyrus scroll. I glanced down the list of no more than ten names: the chiefs of the royal domain; viziers of the north and south; Huy, Chancellor; the Chief Steward; the Chamberlain; the Fan Bearer of the King’s Right Hand…
‘All of those who have entered the royal quarters in the last three days, I have called together and interviewed. It is a pity you could not be there. They didn’t like being kept waiting, and they didn’t like being questioned. It is contributing to the feeling of uncertainty within the palace. I’m afraid I could find no evidence against any of them,’ he said.
‘You mean they all claim to have alibis?’ I asked, irritated by him and by my own anxiety at the lack of progress. He was right. I should have been there. He nodded.
‘Of course, we are now in the process of checking these, and I will have another report for you in the morning.’
‘But where are they now?’
‘I asked them to remain here until you could speak to them. What else would you have me do? It is now dark, and they are angry not to be able to return to their homes and their families. Already they claim they are imprisoned in the royal quarters.’ He snorted.
‘Well, given what is at stake, that is the least of our concerns. Who are these men? I mean, where do their loyalties lie?’
Khay pounced on me at once.
‘Their loyalties lie with the King, and with the Two Lands. And how dare you suggest otherwise?’
‘Yes, that’s the official version, I know. But which of these are Ay’s men?’
They exchanged an uncertain glance. But it was Simut who replied:
‘All of them.’
As I entered, the great men of the royal domain all turned as one from their discussion to gaze at me with frank hostility, but remained seated in a gesture of contempt. I saw abundant wine and food had been laid on for them. Khay as usual made a fussy introduction, and I interrupted him as soon as I could.
‘It is no longer a secret that, somehow, someone is leaving objects within the royal quarters whose aim is to alarm and threaten the King and the Queen. We have come to the conclusion that the only way these objects could be left inside the palace, despite the excellence of the palace security, is if someone with a high level of clearance is delivering them. And I’m afraid, lords, that means one of you.’
There was a moment of icy silence, and then suddenly they were all up on their feet, bellowing in indignation at me, at Khay and at Simut. Khay patted at the turbulent air with his diplomatic hands, as if calming children.
‘Lords, please. Remember that this man has the public acclaim of the King himself. He is merely pursuing his duties in the name of the King. And as you may recall, he has permission to follow his investigation, and I quote the royal words: “regardless of where it may lead him.”’
This was effective.
‘I am sorry to inconvenience you in this way. I realize you all have busy lives, and very important roles to fulfil, and no doubt anxious families at home…’ I continued.
‘Been spared that at least,’ huffed one of them.
‘And I would like to be able to say the time has come for me to thank you and open the door for you to leave. Alas, that is not the case. Regrettably, I will now need to speak to each one of you individually, and I will also need to interview all the officers and staff who are in any way connected to your work here at the palace…’
Another roar of indignation greeted that, during which I gradually became aware of a loud knocking on the door to the chamber. This had the effect of gradually silencing everyone again. I strode over to the door, furious at being interrupted, and saw, to my shock, Ankhesenamun standing there, holding a small object in the palm of her hand.
The magical figurine, no bigger than the span of my hand, had been wrapped in a linen cloth and dropped outside the King’s chamber. It might almost have been possible to mistake it for a toy, except for the vile air of malevolence that emanated from it. Fashioned from dark wax into a shape that represented a human figure, it lacked all character or detail, like a half-formed foetus from the Otherworld. Copper needles had been driven through the head from ear to ear, and back to front through the eyes, as well as through the mouth, and directly downward into the centre of the skull. None pierced the body itself, as if the curse was intended only for the head, the seat of thought, imagination and fear. A few strands of black human hair had been inserted into the navel to transfer the essence of the intended victim into the inert matter of the figurine. I wondered if it was the King’s own hair, because otherwise it would not be magically effective. On the back, the names and titles of the King had been precisely inscribed in the wax. The ritual of execration would call down the curse of death upon the person and his names, so that the destruction of the spirit extended to the afterlife. Such figurines were powerful, ancient magic to those who believed in their authority. It was another attempt to terrify; but it was a much more intimate threat than any of the others, even the death mask; for this was a great curse on the immortality of the King’s spirit.
At the back of the figurine a slip of papyrus had been worked into the wax. I prised it out and unrolled it carefully; tiny signs had been written there in red ink, like those that had been carved into the rim of the box that contained the death mask. Of course, they might just be nonsense, for curses are often expressed in such a way, but then again they might well be an authentic magical language.
Ankhesenamun, Khay and Simut waited impatiently while I finished my examination of the object.
‘This cannot continue,’ said Khay, as if saying it
would make it so. ‘It is an absolute catastrophe…’
I said nothing.
‘Three times the King’s privacy has been invaded. Three times he has been alarmed—’ he continued, bleating like a goat.
‘Where is he now?’ I interrupted him.
‘He has retired to another chamber,’ replied Ankhesenamun. ‘His physician attends him.’
‘And what effect has this had upon him?’
‘He is–troubled.’ She glanced at me, sighed, and continued: ‘When he found the death figure, his breath seized in his chest, and his heart tightened like a knot in a rope. I feared he might die of the terror. And tomorrow is the dedication of the Colonnade Hall. He must appear. This could not have come at a worse moment.’
‘The timing is deliberate,’ I said.
I looked again at the figurine.
‘Whoever did this seems to have been able to attach the King’s own hair.’
I showed Khay. He looked with revulsion at the figurine.
‘But in any case,’ said Simut, in his slow, stentorian voice, ‘no one seems to have noticed that all the suspects, so-called, have been gathered together in one room, at exactly the time this was found. It is not possible for any of them to have delivered this.’
He was right, of course.
‘Please return to the chamber and, with my apologies, release them all. Thank them for their time.’
‘But what am I going to tell them, exactly?’ moaned Khay.
‘Tell them we have a new lead. A promising new lead.’
‘If only that were true,’ he replied bitterly. ‘We are powerless, it seems, against this peril. Time is running out, Rahotep.’
He shook his head and left, accompanied by Simut for protection.
I wrapped the death figure in a length of linen cloth, and placed it in my bag, as I wanted Nakht to see the signs, in case he recognized the language. Ankhesenamun and I remained standing in the corridor. I did not know what to say. I suddenly felt like a creature in a trap, acquiescent to its fate. Then I noticed the doors to the King’s bedchamber were still ajar.
