“I do, your Highness,” said Amun, his voice full and thick. He knew it was wrong to promise that which he could not guarantee; he might never be Hery Sesheta, and he might well not outlive his friend, even allowing for the dangers that went with the role of Pharaoh. But he had been asked to make a vow, and he had made it. He would simply have to find a way; breaking it was unthinkable.
“Good,” said Ramesses. “I must depart, but I will see you in fourteen turns. And we will speak again.”
And we did, thought Amun, as the chariot neared the towering Ibu. We spoke when Seti’s mouth was opened, and when he moved his Palace from Thebes to Pi-Ramesses Aa-nakhtu. We spoke when he buried the first of his sons, when he had been fighting in Syria and Nubia and some of the light had left his eyes. And then…
Amun looked out through the eyeholes in the Anubis mask, and felt his heart aching for his friend.
The mask had been a gift from the man who was now stood inside the Ibu, his head lowered, his hands clasped before him. It was a marvellous creation, set with jewels and gold and painted by the finest craftsman in the empire, with ears that rose more than two feet above his own head and teeth that seemed to alternately snarl and smile, depending on the angle they were viewed from. Amun had been Hery Sesheta for less than a year, and had presided over the burials of a dozen men and women in that time; none of them had in any way prepared him for what was asked of him now.
The Pharaoh Ramesses II, the God-King, the Conqueror of Syria, the Scourge of Nubia, raised his head, and Amun was horrified to see tears on his face. Before him, on the same stone table that had held his father, his grandfather, and almost a dozen of his sons, lay the mummified body of Nefertari, his Great Wife. Amun had demanded his priests’ very finest work, and they had delivered; the mummy was a work of art, its lines smooth and elegant, the amulets contained within the wrappings the finest he had seen, the scroll of the Book of the Dead that had been placed in her hands the work of the finest calligrapher in all of Thebes, and the painting of Osiris that covered her chest a glory to the god it depicted. He had dismissed his priests before the Pharaoh arrived, despite their desire to discover whether the God-King was pleased with their work. Amun knew that there was nothing inside the Ibu that was going to give Ramesses any pleasure.
“Take off the mask,” said the Pharaoh. “I would see your face, Hery Sesheta.”
Amun reached up and lifted the mask clear. His face now wore the lines of middle age, the weathering of a life spent on the edge of the desert. It had been twenty five years since he had stood beside Ramesses as his father was washed and oiled, a long reign by any standards, a great reign, perhaps the greatest of them all, with no end in sight. But time had taken its toll on the Pharaoh too; his once clear skin was now marked and ridged with scars, his eyes were sunken, and his spine was beginning to curve alarmingly, causing him to walk with a stick when not in public.
“I am here, your Highness,” said Amun.
“Stand by me,” said Ramesses. “As you always have.”
Amun swallowed hard, and walked across the Ibu. He was slower than he had been, far slower than when they had first met, when he had all but skipped across the sand to take his place at the young prince’s side. As soon as he was within reach, Ramesses’ hand shot out and gripped his arm, the knuckles white with effort; it hurt, but Amun gave no sign of it.
“You once asked me about grief,” said Ramesses, his gaze fixed on the remains of his wife. “About sadness. I gave you a foolish answer. Do you remember?”
“I do,” said Amun. “You told me that grieving for the dead was selfish.”
“And it is,” said Ramesses. “By any measure, it is. But I would give anything in the empire, anything in all the worlds and heavens to have her breathe again. Does that make me weak?”
“No,” said Amun, his voice cracking. “It makes you human.”
Ramesses turned to face him, and for a fleeting moment, Amun saw the boy the Pharaoh had been; his whole life ahead of him, able to dismiss grief because he had never experienced it, full of the heavy certainty of youth. Then he was gone, replaced by the grown man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Do it,” he said, his voice low and full of pain. “Open her mouth. Let us send her onwards. Perhaps she will wait for me on the other side.”
Prehotep brought the chariot to a halt outside the Ibu, and offered his arm. Amun refused it, and stepped carefully down onto the desert floor on his own.
The vast tent was perched on the western edge of the Valley of the Kings, above the resting places of countless Pharaohs and their families. The tomb in which the mortal remains of Ramesses II would lay for all eternity was waiting below, opposite the enormous labyrinth of rooms in which his children and wives, better than five dozen of them, lay in silent rest. The tomb of Nefertari, the grandest and most lavish of them all, was beside Ramesses’ own.
The Vizier’s retinue formed a guard, two silent lines of dark robes and lowered eyes. Amun walked through it, his head raised, his mind focused solely on the fulfilment of a vow that was more than half a century old. He carried with him his linen sack, and he walked as steadily as he was able. That he was old was impossible to hide, but the watching soldiers need not know just how infirm he had become. He looked straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the Ibu, and stepped through it.
For a long moment, he couldn’t breathe.
He had prepared himself for this moment, ever since word had begun to spread through the empire that the Pharaoh was gone, had believed he had steeled himself further during the journey in the Vizier’s chariot. But now that he was here, now that his friend, the man who in many ways had been the great constant of his long life, was actually lying before him, he faltered. His legs threatened to give way beneath him, but Prehotep’s hand was there again, unasked for but not unwelcome, holding Amun gently until he regained his composure.
Arranged along the opposite side of the Ibu were the priests of Anubis, every one of which had been admitted into the temple during Amun’s time as Hery Sesheta. The majority were watching him with the professional dispassion he expected, but his experienced eyes saw flickers of concern on several of their faces. At the centre of the line stood Masud, the priest who it had been Amun’s final act to promote to Hery Sesheta in his place. He was holding his jackal mask in his hands, and looking at Amun with great warmth in his gaze.
On the stone table lay the mummified remains of Ramesses II, the God-King, the Light of Ra, the Breath of the World. Amun’s professional eye examined the mummy, and concluded that the work was good; the painting of Osiris was perhaps the most beautiful he had seen, in all his long years. On a smaller table lay the cloth and strips of linen that would make the final wrapping; beyond them stood the two coffins that would convey the Pharaoh down to his tomb. There, the priests and mourners would share the funeral meal and make offerings of meat, before the rooms were sealed forever. There was a single thing to be done first.
The Opening of the Mouth.
Unless the ritual was performed perfectly, Ramesses would not be able to eat, drink, or speak in the afterlife. It was of vital importance, and Amun had promised that it would not be done by anyone else.
“Hery Sesheta,” said Masud, smiling gently. “It is good to see you. Would you wear my mask?”
“Thank you, Masud,” said Amun. “But I will wear my own, if that does not offend?”
“It does not, Hery Sesheta,” replied Masud, then turned to his priests. “Clear the Ibu.”
The priests turned silently and exited the tent, without a backward glance between them. Amun admired their stoicism; it was as it should be, death treated as ritual and ceremony and work. He had instilled that focus into every priest he had taught, and was heartened to see their resolve hold. His own was another matter.
“The libations and offerings have been made,” said Masud. “The ritual is all but complete. I will leave you to finish it.”
&nbs
p; “As will I,” said Prehotep. “When it is done, give word.”
“I will,” said Amun, his gaze still locked on the mummy.
The Vizier and the Hery Sesheta both nodded, and left the Ibu. Amun waited until the flap of cloth had swung back into place, then addressed the body of his friend.
“I am here, your Highness,” he said, his voice low and thick. “You cannot know it, but I am here. We are together in this place a final time.”
He lifted the linen sack onto the stone table and opened it. His Anubis mask gleamed under the flickering light of the torches that stood around the edges of the tent; beside it lay a small ornate axe, its head smooth and sharp, its handle carefully painted with inscriptions from the Book of the Dead.
“I did not believe I would see this day,” said Amun. “I held my vow, and nothing would have seen me break it, other than my own death. But I did not truly believe I would stand here, old as I am, with you gone. I am sad, your Highness, and although I know that would not meet with your approval, you are no longer here to tell me so. I would not bring you back, even if such a thing were possible, as I do not believe you would want me to. Instead I will do all that it remains within my power to do. I will send you onwards, in health, in strength, ready to experience the wonders of the next world. And in time, I will follow you.”
Amun raised the mask of Anubis, his hands trembling slightly, and carefully placed it over his head. It seemed so familiar, so right, that he wondered briefly why he had ever taken it off. Then he ordered himself to focus, to put aside the grief that was flooding through him, and raised the axe.
Gently, taking the utmost care, he touched the sharp head against the lips and eyes of the mummy. Then he placed it down, and began to recite words he had long known by heart.
I have pressed your mouth to your bones for you,
whom Horus did take as his Great in Power,
whom Seth did take as his Great in Power.
She has brought you all gods, so you may make them live.
You have come into being in your strength,
to select your protection of life,
to guard against his death.
You have come into being as the sustenance of all gods,
and arisen as dual king, with power over all gods.
Oh Osiris, Shu son of Atum, as he lives, you live.
Sharpness is yours.
Glory is yours.
Homage is yours.
Power is yours, for he has not died.
Horus has opened your mouth for you,
he opens your eyes for you with the Great-of-Power blade,
with which the mouth of every god is opened.
As he reached the final lines, tears began to spill from Amun’s eyes; they pooled inside the mask, then dripped from the eyeholes and fell onto the smooth face of the mummy, darkening the linen with tiny explosions. When it was done, he removed the mask and bent at the waist, lowering himself unsteadily towards the tablet. His lips brushed the hard, dry surface of the mummy’s forehead.
“Life is a great house,” he whispered. “With many doors. Fare well, my friend.”
Amun straightened up, the muscles and bones in his back creaking, and shuffled towards the Ibu’s entrance, to tell the Vizier and his successor that he was done.
Contributors
MAURICE BROADDUS was originally born in London, England, but has lived in America most of his life. He holds a Bachelor’s of Science degree from Purdue University in Biology (with an undeclared major in English) and comes from a family that includes several practicing obeah (think: Jamaican voodoo) people. He whiles away his days as a freelance writer (including as a senior writer for HollywoodJesus.com) and ministry worker. He is the author of the Knights of Breton Court trilogy (Angry Robot Books) and the editor of the Dark Faith anthologies for Apex.
So far this year, David Bryher has written about ghosts, knitting, pigs, Daleks, ballroom dancing and Cleopatra. Not all at once.
JESSE BULLINGTON is possessed of an excitable, ferret-like temperament, and is fond of good food, quality cinema, well-written books, pleasant music, scenic constitutionals, and an occasional spot of your favorite beverage. In addition to penning numerous short stories, articles, and reviews, he is the author of the novels The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart, The Enterprise of Death and The Folly of the World. Jesse also works the other end of the table, serving as editor for the forthcoming anthology Letters to Lovecraft.
GAIL CARRIGER writes to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in Higher Learning. Ms. Carriger then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She resides in the Colonies, surrounded by fantastic shoes, where she insists on tea imported from London. Her Parasol Protectorate books are: Soulless, Changeless, Blameless, Heartless, and Timeless. Soulless won the ALA’s Alex Award and has been turned into a graphic novel. Her young adult Finishing School series began with Etiquette & Espionage and continues with Curtsies & Conspiracies.
PAUL CORNELLis a writer of SF and fantasy in prose, comics and television, and one of only two people to be Hugo Award-nominated for all three media. He wrote three episodes of Doctor Who for the BBC, Batman & Robin and Superman in Action Comics for DC, and a mature readers series for Vertigo, Saucer Country. His second urban fantasy novel, The Severed Streets, about a modern undercover police unit in London accidentally becoming able to see dark magic and monsters, is now out from Tor in the UK this December, and in the US in April.
JONATHAN GREEN has more than fifty books to his name. Well known for his contributions to the Fighting Fantasy range of adventure gamebooks, and numerous Black Library publications, he has also written fiction for such diverse properties as Doctor Who, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Sonic the Hedgehog, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Judge Dredd. Jonathan is the creator of the Pax Britannia series for Abaddon Books, and has written eight novels in an ongoing series set within this alternative steampunk universe featuring the debonair dandy adventurer Ulysses Quicksilver. You can find him on Twitter at @jonathangreen as well as at JonathanGreenAuthor.com.
LOUIS GREENBERG is a freelance editor and writer. After a childhood focussed on staying out of trouble, he studied English and History and qualified with a Master’s degree on sex and family in vampire fiction. Later he returned to university for a doctorate on the post-religious apocalyptic fiction of Douglas Coupland. His first novel, The Beggars’ Signwriters, was shortlisted for the 2007 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize. His dystopian thriller, Dark Windows, will be published in 2014. Under the name S.L. Grey, he co-writes horror-thrillers with Sarah Lotz, zombie queen of the south.
MARIA DAHVANA HEADLEY is the Nebula-nominated author of the dark fantasy/alternate history novel Queen of Kings, as well as the internationally bestselling memoir The Year of Yes. Her short fiction has appeared in Lightspeed, Subterranean, Glitter & Mayhem and more, and in the 2013 editions of Rich Horton’s The Year’s Best Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Paula Guran’s The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy & Horror. Most recently, with Neil Gaiman, she co-edited the young-adult monster anthology Unnatural Creatures, to benefit 826DC. Find her on Twitter at @mariadahvana, or on the web at www.mariadahvanaheadley.com
JENNI HILL is a science fiction and fantasy editor who lives in North London. She grew up in a house owned by many cats.
WILL HILL is an author. Which means he spends long periods of time staring out of windows, playing computer games, checking emails, Tweeting and generally inventing new and unusual ways to actually avoid typing any words.
GLEN MEHN reads, writes, thinks, and drinks, all at the same time. When not saving the world by helping out early stage start-ups working on healthcare, the environment, and education he can be found trying to write his way out of his fear of the future. He lives with more computers than people and can otherwise be found either fighting crime on aeroplanes
or drunk in a corridor..
ROGER LUCKHURST is usually found crouching over a laptop writing cultural histories of supernatural things, such as The Invention of Telepathy and The Mummy’s Curse: A True History of a Dark Fantasy. He comes out at night, mostly, to teach Gothic literature at Birkbeck College, University of London.
The cartouche on David Thomas Moore’s (a popular if incorrect Anglicisation of a third-century Vulgate Latinisation of a pre-Christian Greek rendition of the original name) tomb identifies him as an “approver/corrector of inscriptions,” a kind of early prose editor, who appears to have lived and died in Thebes in the first half of the Eighteenth Dynasty, possibly during the reign of Thutmose II or III. His master, or employer, has been rendered variously as “Abaddon” or “Solaris.” The hieroglyphs are partly obscured by damage and erosion, but it is believed that he lived with a wife, Tamsin and daughter, Beatrix. Beyond that, only the words “barge” and “donkey” can be made out.
LOU MORGAN‘s debut novel, Blood and Feathers has been nominated for two British Fantasy Awards, and the follow-up, Blood and Feathers: Rebellion was published by Solaris in July 2013. Her short stories have appeared in anthologies alongside fiction by Audrey Niffenegger and Joe Hill, and she cheerfully admits to having eaten a hot-dog stuffed-crust pizza.
SARAH NEWTON is a writer of science-fiction and fantasy roleplaying games and fiction, including Monsters & Magic, the old-school fantasy roleplaying game, Mindjammer, The Chronicles of Future Earth and Burn Shift, the post-apocalyptic setting for Fate Core. She’s also the author of the Mindjammer transhuman space opera novel and numerous short stories. Sarah lives in rural France with her legendarily patient husband, an out-of-tune piano and numerous farmyard animals.
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