Secrets of a Sun King

by Emma Carroll

  As soon as we got on board it was obvious we weren’t the only cargo. From the hold of the ship came sounds of bleating. The smell was eye-wateringly bad.

  ‘Ugh!’ Tulip pinched her nose. ‘What’s that stench?’

  ‘Goats,’ Mrs Mendoza said cheerily.

  I was, my stomach was beginning to tell me, not a very good sailor. But at least we were moving. At this rate – and if we got a decent connection in Cairo – we’d be in Luxor by Sunday. By my reckoning this was a whole day earlier than planned.

  It was less smelly in the fresh air, so we stayed up on deck until the boat left the harbour. Surprisingly quickly, the coast of Greece shrank away behind us. What replaced it on all sides was the sea, as dark and steep as mountains. Though I clung on to the handrail for dear life, I’d soon had enough of being battered by spray.

  ‘I’m going to lie down,’ I told Tulip.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ she agreed.

  Our cabin was basic. The bunks were bare mattresses, the windows little misted-up portholes. But at least there was a slop bucket in the corner which, if my guts were anything to go by, I’d be acquainted with very soon. Oz was already here. He’d commandeered one of the bottom bunks by spreading out Alex’s old Egyptian books, his own sketchbook, pencils, pens.

  ‘How can you read in this weather?’ I groaned.

  ‘Easy,’ he replied, without even looking up.

  Outside it was getting stormier, and darker, and it was still only mid-afternoon. As Oz kept on reading, Tulip and I lay on our bunks, lolling this way and that with the waves. Every now and again there’d be a massive one that made your stomach drop like you were going over a bridge. All the while, I tried not to think about food, which for me was very unnatural.

  When one particularly huge wave smacked into the side of the boat, it sent us and the cases sprawling across the floor. In a cabin so small there wasn’t far to fall. But my suitcase came open – I already knew the catch on Mum’s case wasn’t the strongest. All my clothes scattered across the floor, Professor Hanawati’s translations in amongst them. So too did the old cardigan I’d wrapped the jar in, but it unravelled somehow, and the jar was no longer inside.

  Immediately I was on my knees, searching frantically through my clothes. Oz crouched beside me and peered under the bunk.

  ‘It’s here,’ he said. Being smaller, he was able to slide his hand right in under the slats and pull it out again.

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ I took it from him. The jar was dustier than ever now, but luckily didn’t seem damaged. Yet seeing it again – unwrapped, in daylight – made the back of my neck prickle. There was strange magic in this jar, all right. Tulip seemed to sense it too, for she started briskly rubbing her arms like she was cold.

  There was something else not right with it: as I turned it in my hand it looked lopsided, like if you put it on a table it’d topple over. Worried that I’d damaged it, I held it to the light for a better look.

  ‘It’s the lid,’ Tulip pointed. ‘It’s moved.’

  She was right: the Anubis-head stopper was facing the wrong way. Anyone with eyes could see it had come loose. It didn’t take much to open it, either, which was astonishing considering how before, when we’d heaved and pulled, it hadn’t moved a jot. Now, all it took was a gentle twist, a dry, gritty grinding noise and the Anubis head was in my hand. The jar was open.

  I glanced at Tulip, at Oz. In a flash, we were all peering inside.

  ‘I can see something white,’ Tulip said eagerly. ‘Have a look, Lil.’

  Slipping my hand in sideways, I touched what felt like very thick paper. Oh so carefully, heart in my mouth, I pulled out what looked like a scroll, neatly folded and tied with leather. I’d seen paper like this before in the British Museum: it was papyrus, made from a plant, Grandad told me, that grew in swamps near the Nile.

  ‘Whoa!’ Oz breathed in sharply. ‘I bet that’s very old!’

  ‘What is it?’ Tulip pressed. ‘Can you open it?’

  The papyrus looked so ancient it was almost flaking. I was pretty sure what it was, by now. It made it doubly exciting, and doubly important to see it all in one piece. Very gently, using just the tips of my fingers, I eased the scroll open a little way.

  ‘I think it’s Lysandra’s account,’ I told the others. ‘The rest of it, I mean. Professor Hanawati mentioned he’d found it in the jar. Looks like he put it back there …’

  Tulip whistled under her breath. ‘Did he finish translating it?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ What I’d read only took us up to Maya choosing the tomb site. So if this was the whole account, the end of Kyky’s story would be here too. The problem was, I wasn’t an Egyptian scholar. Lysandra’s tiny scrawl was visible through the paper, and backwards, forwards, upside down, I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.

  ‘I might be able to work some of it out,’ Oz offered. ‘With the help of these.’ And he patted Alex’s books, one by one, like talismans.

  Dear Oz. His serious, big-eyed face gazing at the jar as if the secrets of the universe lurked there. Maybe they did. Maybe this was a chance for him to put into practice all the things his big brother had taught him, and he’d learned for himself. Or maybe it was simply the only choice we had.

  ‘Do your best,’ I said, handing the paper over.

  Through the smeary porthole windows, late sunshine poured in. The storm outside seemed to be easing at last. Time passed. We lit lanterns and shared some biscuits. When Mrs Mendoza stuck her head round the door, we told her everything was fine.

  *

  It was morning before we knew it, and through the cabin porthole, Tulip announced, with a yawn, that she could see land. Together, we stood on tiptoe, staring at what almost looked like a line of cloud on the horizon.

  ‘Is that really Egypt?’ I asked.

  Tulip smiled. ‘Got to be.’

  It was incredible to think we were nearly there.

  ‘That’s perfect timing.’ A voice wafted up from the bottom bunk, making us both spin round. It was the first time in hours that Oz had uttered a single word.

  ‘Did you manage to make sense of it?’ I asked eagerly. ‘Is it the ending?’

  In answer, he patted places for us to sit not-quite-next to him, so we could hear the story he’d been poring over all night long.

  LYSANDRA

  Just when the gods seem to be smiling on us again, reports arrive of a battle in the north. Land that is ours has been seized by outsiders.

  ‘We must teach them a lesson!’ Horemheb roars from the palace steps. ‘They cannot take what is not theirs!’

  He asks for chariots, weapons, able fighting men. There’s tension in the streets, people are scared, but no one is ready to volunteer.

  It’s Kyky who suggests an alternative: invite the northern troublemakers to the palace for ‘talks’. I’m astonished that Horemheb and Ay take him seriously. Yet, after much deliberation in secret, they do.

  Households are asked to prepare food as if we’re welcoming guests from afar. For the next few days we bake bread, make honey cakes. Our house is unbearably hot but smells delicious – good enough, I hope, to bring about peace.

  The evening before the visitors arrive is moonless and mild. Just as Maya and I are readying for sleep, a familiar limping figure appears at our doorway.

  ‘Lysandra!’ Kyky hisses. ‘I’ve had another dream.’

  I beckon him inside. These days I’m wary of who might be listening.

  ‘Was it the same again?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’ Kyky rubs his temples like he has a headache. The old insect bite on his face is inflamed. ‘There was a battle here, inside the palace. I had no weapons. I tried to fight people off with lamps, dishes, whatever I could find, but there was blood, Lysandra, so much blood.’

  I fill with dread; this must be an omen for tomorrow.

  ‘My only escape was through a door in the wall,’ Kyky goes on. ‘This time the door opened, and I was so glad, so relieved to walk st
raight through.’

  I glance at Maya. He’s gone pale. We both know what the open door means.

  Kyky speaks first. He’s shivering: ‘I’m going to die tomorrow, aren’t I? This visit is a trap. I should never have suggested it.’

  Maya tries to comfort him. ‘It might not be so.’

  ‘Horemheb’s lured the visitors here to kill them,’ Kyky argues. ‘He’ll kill me too in the heat of the fight, then claim he was trying to defend me.’

  I think of the broken chariot wheel, the whisperings at the window. People are plotting against our king, and have been for some time. Ay is impatient to take over as pharaoh. He cannot wait for his godson’s life to take its natural course. I’m relieved Kyky believes us now, though it makes things far more dangerous. The scorpions and their poison are all around us.

  ‘Dreams this vivid rarely lie,’ I remind them both.

  Kyky nods. He’s terrified.

  ‘If anyone attacks we fight back,’ Maya says.

  He’s being serious, but the truth is my brother’s no warrior, and Kyky looks ill again. His injured leg still isn’t sound, either. Against an army or an assassin, they don’t stand a chance.

  More importantly, I can’t shake the dream. It’s telling us Kyky will begin his journey to the afterlife tomorrow wherever he is, whatever he’s doing. He might be murdered by his uncle’s men. Or he might die peacefully in his sleep, or choke on his morning bread and honey. If it is to be his last day in this life, I believe he should spend it well.

  ‘I’ve a different suggestion,’ I tell Kyky. ‘If you could do anything tomorrow, what would you wish for? Where would you want to be?’

  Kyky and Maya look at me, surprised, as if ideas are their job, not mine.

  Yet they understand what I’m saying and just before dawn they sneak off on foot, out into the desert, as far from the palace as the day’s walk will take them. They’ll throw fruit, hunt rodents, doze in the shade. They’ll be their best and happiest selves. Meanwhile here within the city walls, I hope Horemheb and Ay’s plans will fall as flat as a griddle on the fire.

  The guests from the north arrive on horseback. As they ride up the main street towards the palace, we’re meant to be welcoming them but instead, their strangeness makes us stare. The men are fair-haired, squat, ugly. Their horses look the same but with kinder eyes. Before they even dismount, Horemheb and his advisers appear on the palace steps, carrying swords. More of our men gather behind them, blocking the entrance to the palace. All are heavily armed. With a shudder, I think of Kyky’s dream, and who this show of swords and daggers is really for.

  Mother, like the others watching, is confused. ‘Why aren’t they letting them in? Did we not invite them here to make peace?’

  I don’t need to tell her. Word soon reaches us that the king is missing. He isn’t here to receive his guests. The visitors are sent away, as confused as the townspeople, only with sorer tempers. From the palace, I hear shouting and the crashing of things being thrown across a room. As Mother and I go back to our chores, I pray that Maya and Kyky will stay away as long as they can.

  Mid-morning, we’re drawn from our work by a sudden darkening of the skies. The sandstorm is upon us in moments. Mother and I rush to bring pots, carpets, chickens inside, as gusts of wind tear through the courtyard. All along the central street, palm trees flail like horsewhips.

  Once the shutters are closed at all the windows, Mother lights a lamp.

  ‘It’s a bad omen,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Things have not gone well today.’

  I’m nervous too as we wait out the storm, listening to the wind and the sand pelting our walls like a million tiny stones. My only hope is that Maya and Kyky have found shelter.

  The storm, though fierce, blows over quickly. I’m anxious to know what’s happening at the palace, so am glad to open the shutters again and have an excuse to be outside. Everything is coated in desert dust. There are drifts of it at our door, our gate. Servants are already clearing the palace steps, shaking out carpets and brushing down seats. Then one of them stops to stare into the distance. He points, says Maya’s name.

  I rush to the gate. They’re back too early. The storm must have driven them home again. Yet the moment I catch sight of them it’s clear something else is wrong. Maya is carrying Kyky over his shoulder, his head and arms lolling down my brother’s back. He rushes into the palace without a word. Fear makes me follow him inside.

  I find Maya in the main hall surrounded by men with swords. They won’t let him pass.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I cry. ‘Let my brother inside at once!’

  ‘Ay’s orders,’ one of the men says. ‘We’re not allowed to let anyone go beyond this point.’

  ‘But you can see he’s carrying the king! He’s unwell! He needs tending!’

  Maya tries to quieten me. The noise brings Ay out into the hall, where he observes the scene with dead-on-a-platter fish eyes.

  ‘My godson has returned, I see,’ he says, but when he realises Kyky’s condition, there is no disguising his shock.

  ‘Is he—?’

  ‘Dying?’ Maya interrupts. ‘Yes. This time, I believe he is.’

  We make Kyky as comfortable as we can. Medicines are sent for, bowls of cool water brought, but I don’t think either will do much good. The bite on his face, the wound to his leg, both are red and blistering. I remember him last night rubbing his head, shivering. He was falling ill even then.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask Maya.

  My brother tells me how they’d travelled only a little way when Kyky asked to stop, the sweat running off him like rivers. He collapsed to the ground. Closed his eyes. He didn’t get up again. No fruit was thrown, no rodents hunted.

  ‘We’d already taken shelter when the sandstorm hit,’ he explains.

  All day Maya and I sit with Kyky. We try not to cry, try instead to count his slowing breaths and be thankful that he’s been in our lives. When evening comes, as we light lamps and burn incense to cleanse the air, Kyky’s breathing changes. His eyelids flutter. He opens his eyes.

  I’m astounded. He’s recovered! He’s survived!

  When I look at Maya he’s laughing – laughing and crying at the same time. ‘Are you staying in this life after all?’ he asks.

  Kyky gives a tiny shake of the head. ‘No, but I don’t want to leave you both. I’m scared.’

  ‘The afterlife will be wonderful,’ I tell him. ‘Full of all the riches you could wish for.’

  ‘Riches haven’t brought me happiness,’ Kyky says. ‘All I want is to be with my friends.’

  ‘Then don’t die!’ Maya insists, holding tightly on to Kyky’s hand. ‘What will I be without you? Who will I throw pomegranates at?’

  ‘I can think of a few possibilities,’ Kyky says, smiling.

  He closes his eyes, then. A long, sighing breath leaves his chest. I sit silent, waiting for more, but no others follow. It’s me who cries now. Maya gently slips his hand from Kyky’s.

  ‘Safe journey, my friend,’ he says. ‘I promise you this isn’t the end, but a brilliant new beginning.’

  The rituals start the next morning. Though sadness lies thick as smoke over the town, Kyky’s body must be prepared for its glorious final journey, and it’s a long, detailed task that will involve many. So often in Kyky’s short life we’ve come close to this moment – fevers, accidents, a new limp, a different pain; it’s hard to believe his time has finally come.

  It helps us to be busy. Maya takes a bigger team of workmen back to the tomb site in the valley. They must carve rooms from the rock face, paint them, fill them with all the treasures our king needs for his new life. It’s work that would normally take years, yet now has to be finished in just seventy days.

  At the palace, Mother and I are summoned to wash the body. Poor Kyky is a small, wasted figure, his arms and legs thinner than mine. With its old insect bites and new wounds his skin looks like a battlefield.

  ‘He’s still warm,’ Mother
comments, as we wash and shave his scalp.

  ‘It’s the fever,’ I tell her. My hands, though, start shaking as I realise my terrible mistake.

  My grandfather would never have made the error. He’d have listened to Kyky’s dream, weighing it in his hands, and he’d have noticed the telltale signs of fever. His dream was confusing, bewildering, but it wasn’t an omen – not a strong one. It was mostly nonsense, as fever dreams are.

  My grandfather would have told Kyky to go home and take to his bed and rest. No doubt he would have advised an armed guard or two at his bedchamber door, but he’d never have sent him out into the desert where he thought he’d be safe, when he was hardly well enough to stand.

  The mistake is mine. I am broken.

  Other mistakes quickly follow. The tomb is in a difficult place. Fault lines in the rock mean it’s dangerous to cut deeper into the hillside. Special equipment is needed, more plans, more workers, otherwise the whole mountainside will collapse. Ay tells Maya to choose another spot.

  ‘But it has to be here, in this exact place,’ Maya insists. ‘I’ve measured the sun.’

  Ay tells him there’s no time for such details: burial rules state our pharaoh’s tomb must be ready in seventy days. So it’s no surprise when Ay takes over the plans. He chooses a new site at the base of the rock face. It’s a shadowy, unlikely place for a royal tomb. Maya is furious: this alternative is a very poor second best. My brother wants to grab Ay by the throat and shake him. It takes all Mother’s soothing to calm him down.

  The preparations continue all day and into the next. Early in the morning, Ay corners me as I cross the courtyard. He reminds me of my duty as a scribe.