Tutankhamun: The Book of Shadows (2 page)

‘My name is Rahotep. I am Chief Detective in the Thebes Medjay division. My assistant Khety will need to talk to you in greater detail. I'm afraid it is necessary, even at a time like this. But tell me, did you hear or notice anything unusual last night?'

He shook his head.

‘Nothing. We keep no night guard, for everyone here knows us, and our house is not rich. We are ordinary people. We sleep upstairs, for the cool air, but our son slept here, on the ground floor. It was much easier for him if he wished to move about. And he liked to watch what was going on in the street–it was all he saw of the life of the city. If he needed us in the night, he would call.'

He paused, as if listening to the silence in the hope of hearing his dead son's voice calling. ‘What sort of man would do this to a boy of such simple love and soul?'

He looked at me, desperate for an answer. I found I did not have one that would help at all, at this moment.

The vivid grief in his eyes had changed suddenly into the desperate purity of revenge.

‘When you catch him, give him to me. I will kill him, slowly and mercilessly. He will learn the true meaning of pain.'

But I could not promise him that. He looked away, and his body began to shudder. I left him to the privacy of his grief.

 

We stood in the street. The eastern horizon was swiftly turning from indigo to turquoise. Khety yawned widely.

‘You look like a necropolis cat,' I said.

‘I'm as hungry as a cat,' he replied, once he had finished his yawn.

‘Before we think of breakfast, let's think about that young man.'

He nodded. ‘Vicious…'

‘But strangely purposeful.'

He nodded again, considering the almost visibly changing darkness at his feet, as if it might provide him with a clue.

‘Everything's upside down and back to front these days. But when it comes to mutilating and rearranging lame, helpless boys…' He shook his head in amazement.

‘And on this day, the biggest day of the festival…' I said, quietly.

We let the thought settle between us for a moment.

‘Take statements from the family and servants. Check the room for anything we might have missed in the dark…do it while it is all still fresh. Find out if the neighbours saw anyone unusual hanging around. The killer selected this boy carefully. Somebody may have seen him. And then get off to the festival and enjoy yourself. Meet me back at headquarters later.'

He nodded, and turned back into the house.

Taking Thoth by his leash, I walked away down the lane and turned into the street at the end. The God Ra had just appeared above the horizon now, reborn from the great mystery of the Otherworld of night into a new day, silver-white, spreading his sudden, vast brilliance of light. As the first rays touched my face it was instantly hot. I had promised to be at home with the children by sunrise, and I was already late.

The streets were suddenly crowded. People were emerging from different quarters, from the upper-class villas behind their high walls and reinforced gates, as well as from the poor back streets and rubbish-strewn alleys. Today, for once, the city's mules and their burdens of mud-bricks and rubble, vegetables and fruits, were not on the streets, and the immigrant labourers who would normally be hurrying to their harsh work were enjoying a rare day of rest. Elite men of the bureaucracies in their pleated white clothing clung on to the back of their little horse-drawn chariots as they bumped and rattled along the ways of the city, some accompanied by running bodyguards. Men of the lower hierarchies walked with their servants and sunshades, along with rich children and their guardians, and expensively groomed women setting forth on early visits accompanied by their excited maids; everyone making their way, as if in time to some unheard drumbeat, towards the Southern Temple at the end of the city's territory in order to attend the ceremonies of the festival. Everyone wanted to watch the arrival of the sacred boats bear
ing the shrines of the Gods, and even more importantly to get a glimpse of the King receiving them in public–before he entered the most secret and sacred of the temple shrines to commune with the Gods and receive their divinity into himself.

But whereas, once upon a time, everyone's concern would have been about making sure the whole family was as finely dressed, as neatly styled, as well fed, and as impressive as possible–in these days of strained obedience, the wonder and the awe had been replaced by uncertainty and anxiety. The festivals were not as I remembered them from my own childhood, when the world had seemed like a boundless fable: the processions and the visitations, station by station, of the divine figures in their gold shrines, carried on gold barges, all unfolding and passing in pageant, revealed to the overheated crowds like great images on a living scroll.

I entered my courtyard, and untied Thoth from his leash. He immediately loped over to his bed, and settled down to watch from the corner of his eye one of the cats working at her exquisite toilet, an elegant front paw thrust out in the air as she licked it clean. She looked like the coy mistress of an older gentleman, playing up to her audience.

Inside, the house was in chaos. Amenmose was sitting cross-legged at the low table like a little king, beating his clenched fist in time to some tune in his cheerful head, as the milk in his bowl slopped out on to the floor for another of the cats to lick up. The girls were running to and fro, getting themselves ready. They barely registered my presence. ‘Good morning!' I shouted, and they chorused back some semblance of a greeting. Tanefert kissed me briefly as she passed. So I settled down at the table with my son, who regarded me with mild curiosity for a moment, as if he had never met me before. Then, suddenly, he honoured me with one of his vast smiles of recognition, and continued to bash at his dish to show me how well he could do it. He is the golden child we did not expect, the surprise and delight of my middle years. At his age, he still believes everything I tell him, so I tell him the best of everything. Of course, he doesn't understand a word. I tried to amuse him by feeding him his milk, and as if it were a special occasion, he solemnly drank.

As I watched him, I thought about the dead boy in his shattered condition; his grotesque image suddenly like a shadow at the table of life. That he had been killed in this fashion on the very day of the festival might not be a coincidence. It might not also be any kind of coincidence that the victim's imperfections recalled those of our young King. Although of course no one publicly dares make any mention of his infirmities–his
alleged
infirmities–it is rumoured that Tutankhamun is less than perfect in his earthly body. But since he is rarely seen in public–and even then he always rides in a chariot, or sits on a throne–no one can say for sure what truth lies in the matter. But it is common knowledge he has never exercised power on his own account, even though he must now have come of age.

I had met his father several times, years ago, in the city of Akhetaten. And on one of those occasions I had also glimpsed the boy who had now become the King, if in name only; I remembered the
tap, tap, tap
of his cane down the echoey corridor of that vain, tragic and now surely derelict palace. I remembered his face, charismatic, angled, with a small, shy chin. He had looked like an old soul in a young body. And I remembered what my friend Nakht had said to me about the boy, who in those days was called Tutankhaten: ‘
When the time of the Aten is over, the Amun will be restored. He may yet be called by a new name. Tutankhamun
.' And so it had proved to be. For the maddened Akhenaten had been confined to his palace in the dusty Otherworld of his crumbling dream city. And after his death, all its vast open temples and multitudes of great statues of the King and Nefertiti had begun their inevitable return to rubble; the very bricks of the city's hasty construction were now said to be turning back into the dust of their making.

After Akhenaten's death, throughout the Two Lands of Egypt and its dominions, his cult of the Aten had been abandoned. The image of the sun disc, and its many hands reaching down with the Ankh, sign of life, to bless the world, was no longer carved upon the walls of the temples in any of our cities. Life in Thebes had continued as if everyone had agreed to pretend that none of these things had ever happened. But of course people's private memories are not so easily wiped clean
of history; the new religion had had many committed supporters, and many more who, in the hope of worldly preferment, had placed the fate of their livelihoods and futures upon its triumph. And many remained privately opposed to the Amun priests' astounding earthly powers, and to the absolute authority of one man in particular: Ay, a man not truly of the natural world, his blood cool, his heart as deliberate and indifferent as the
drip, drip, drip
of a water clock. Egypt in our times is the richest, most powerful kingdom the world has ever known, and yet no one feels safe. Fear, that unknowable and all-powerful enemy, has invaded us all, like a secret army of shadows.

 

We set out together in a hurry, for we were, as usual, late. The intense light of dawn had given way to the broad, powerful heat of morning. Amenmose sat on my shoulders clapping his hands and yelling with excitement. I pushed ahead, shouting at people to make way. The official insignia of my Medjay office seemed to have less effect than Thoth's bark; he helped to clear a path through the excited mass of sweaty bodies jostling for space and air, congesting the crooked, narrow lanes and passageways leading to the Great River. Music from strings and trumpets warred with shouts and songs and jeers as men called out to each other in cheerful recognition or fantastic abuse. Tied monkeys jabbered and caged birds shrieked. Street-sellers bellowed their wares and their snacks, and insisted on the perfection of their offerings. A lunatic, with a bony face and wild eyes searching the heavens, proclaimed the coming of the Gods and the end of the world. I loved it all as much as my son.

The girls followed, dressed in their finest linens, their hair shining and scented with moringa and lotus oil. Behind them Tanefert made sure no one got lost, and no one tried to approach. My girls are becoming women. How will I feel when the three great glories of my life leave me for their adulthood? I have loved each one from before the moment they entered the world yelling in answer to their names. As the thought of their leaving began to hurt me, I glanced back. Sekhmet, the oldest, smiled quietly; the scholar of the family, she
claims she can hear me thinking, which is an alarming thought, given the nonsense that makes up most of my musings.

‘Father, we should hurry.'

She was right, as usual. The time of the arrival of the Gods was approaching.

We found seats on the official stands under the shade of the riverside trees. All along the east bank, offering booths and shrines had been set up, and large crowds had gathered, full of expectation, waiting for the ship to appear. I nodded to various people I recognized. Below us, young Medjay officers were failing to impose much order on the crowd, but it has always been this way during the festival. I glanced around; the numbers of troops seemed surprisingly high, but security has become a national obsession in our times.

Then Thuyu shouted and pointed at the first of the towing boats as it came into view from the north; and at the same time we glimpsed the boat gangs on the riverbank struggling to pull the
Userhet
, the Great Ship of the God Amun. At this distance the famous and ancient floating temple of gold was just a glow on the glittering waters. But as it drew closer and made a turn towards the shoreline, the rams' heads at the prow and stern became clear, and the sun's full glory hit the polished solar discs above their heads, sending blinding light scintillating across the vast green and brown waters, glancing and flashing among the crowds. The girls gasped and stood up, waving and shouting. From the flagpole of the ship, and from the oar at the rear, brightly coloured streamers fluttered. And there at the centre was the golden shrine, veiling the hidden God himself, which would be carried ceremonially through the crowds for the short distance from the dock to the temple entrance.

The rowers at the rear of the ship, and the gangs on the shore, efficiently brought the vessel alongside the great stone dock. Now we could see the protecting frieze of cobras above the shrine, the crowns above the rams' heads, and the gold falcons on their poles. Amenmose was utterly silenced, his little mouth wide open, amazed by this vision of another world. Then, to a vast and deafening roar, which made my
son nestle into my chest anxiously, the God's carrying shrine was raised upon the shoulders of the priests. They struggled to balance the burden of so much solid gold as they processed slowly and carefully down the gangplank on to the dock. The crowds surged forward against the linked arms of the guards. Dignitaries, priests and foreign potentates knelt down and made their offerings.

The temple was only a short distance from the riverbank. There was a ritual way station where the shrine would pause briefly for the hidden God to accept offerings, before being carried across the open ground towards the temple gateway.

It was time to move, if we were to get a good view of the carrying shrine's arrival.

We pushed our way through the crowds to Nakht's grand city house that stands close to the Avenue of Sphinxes, to the north of the temple entrance. Here are the residences of only the richest and most powerful families of the city, and my old friend Nakht belongs to that select group, although in person he could not be less like the haughty, arrogant grotesques that make up the vast majority of our so-called elite class. I noticed again my own stiff contempt for these people, and tried to prepare myself for the inevitable condescensions this party would involve.

He was waiting to greet his many rich and famous guests inside the large main door, wearing his finest linens. His face has sharp, delicate features that have become more pronounced with the passing of time, and unusual, flecked topaz eyes that seem to observe life and people as a fascinating but slightly remote pageant. He is the most intelligent man I have ever met, and for him the life of the mind, and of rational enquiry into the mysteries of the world, is everything. He has no
partner, and seems to need none, for his life is full of interest and fine company. There has always been something of the hawk about him, as if he is merely perching here on earth, ready to fly into the empyrean with a brief shrug of his powerful mind. Why we are friends I am not sure, but he seems always to relish my company. And he truly loves my family. When he saw the children, his face filled with delight; for they adore him. He embraced them, and kissed Tanefert–who I think adores him a little too much–and then hurried us all through into the sudden tranquillity of the beautiful courtyard, full of unusual plants and birds.

‘Come up to the terrace,' he said, handing special festival sweets to each of the children, like a benign sorcerer. ‘You are almost late, I don't want you to miss anything on this special day.' Sweeping the delighted Nedjmet into his arms, and followed attentively by the two older girls, he bounded up the wide stairs, until we reached his unusually spacious roof terrace. Unlike most people who use their tiny city roof space for sun-drying vegetables and fruits, and hanging out the washing, Nakht uses his larger quarters for more glamorous pursuits: for example, to observe the transit of the stars in the night sky, for this mystery is his deepest passion. And he uses it for his famous parties to which he invites people from all walks of life; and today a large crowd was milling about, drinking his excellent wine, eating the exquisite morsels of food from many trays set on stands everywhere, and chattering away under the protection of the beautifully embroidered awning, or under the sunshades held by patient, sweating servants.

The view was one of the best in the city. The rooftops of Thebes spread away in every direction, an umber and terra-cotta labyrinth crammed with the reds and yellows of drying crops, unused and derelict furniture and crates, caged birds and other groups of people who had gathered on these lookout platforms above the chaos of the streets. As I gazed at the panorama, I realized how much the city had expanded in this last decade.

Tutankhamun wished to be seen to demonstrate the royal family's
renewed loyalty and largesse to Amun, the God of the city, and the priests who owned and administered his temples, in the construction of new monuments and ever more ambitious and glorious temple buildings. For these, great numbers of engineers, artisans and especially labourers were required, whose shanties and settlements had sprung up around the temples, pushing the city's boundary further into the cultivation. I looked north, and saw the ancient dark lanes of markets, pigpens, workshops and tiny houses of the ungovernable heart of the city bisected by the unnatural straight line of the Avenue of Sphinxes, built before I was born. To the west ran the glittering silver serpent of the Great River, and on either side the fields shone blindingly bright, like a carefully shattered mirror, where they had been flooded by the inundation.

Much further away, on the west bank, beyond the strips of cultivation, lay the vast stone mortuary temples in the desert, and beyond them the secret underground tombs of the Kings in their hidden Valley. To the south of the temples lay the Royal Palace of Malkata with its suburb of administrators' offices and homes, and in front of it the vast stagnant expanse of the Birket Habu lake. Beyond the city and its territories was the definitive border between the Black Land and the Red Land; there it is possible to stand with one foot in the world of living things, and the other in the world of dust and sand, where the sun vanishes each night, and where we send our spirits after death and our criminals to perish, and where the monsters of our nightmares roam and haunt us in that great, barren darkness.

In front of us, running north to south between the great temple cities of Karnak and the Southern Temple, the Avenue was as empty as a dry riverbed, apart from the sweepers who were working fast to clear the last specks of dust and debris so that everything would be perfect. Before the vast painted mud-brick wall of the Southern Temple, phalanxes of Theban army units and crowds of priests in white robes were massed silently in their orders. After the lively chaos of the dock, here all was regimented order and conformity. Medjay officers held back the crowds that pressed together on all sides of the open ground and on
either side of the Avenue, until they faded into the shimmering blur of distance; so many people, drawn together by the dream of a propitious glimpse of the God on this Day of Days.

Nakht appeared at my side. For a moment we were alone.

‘Am I imagining it, or is the atmosphere strange?' I said.

He nodded. ‘It never used to be so tense.'

The swallows, alone in their delight, zoomed about our heads. I discreetly produced the linen amulet, and showed it to him.

‘What can you tell me about this?'

He looked at it in surprise, and read it quickly.

‘It is a Spell for the Dead, as even you must know. But it is a very particular one. It is said to have been written by Thoth, God of Writing and Wisdom, for the great God Osiris. In order for the spell to be ritually effective, the ink must be made from myrrh. Such a thing is usually reserved only for the funerals of the very highest of the high.'

‘Such as?' I asked, puzzled.

‘High priests. Kings. Where did you find it?'

‘On the dead body of a lame boy. He was certainly no king.'

Now it was Nakht who looked surprised.

‘When?'

‘First thing this morning,' I replied.

He pondered these strange facts for a moment, and shook his head.

‘I cannot yet make sense of that,' he decided.

‘Neither can I. Except that I do not believe in coincidence.'

‘Coincidence is merely a way of saying we recognize a connection between two events, but cannot discover the meaning of that connection,' he replied, concisely.

‘Everything you say always sounds exactly right, my friend. You have the gift of turning confusion into an epigram.'

He smiled. ‘Yes, but it is a kind of tyranny with me, for I am far too neat for my own good. And life, as we know, is mostly chaos.'

I observed him as he continued to ponder the linen and its strange spell. He was thinking something he would not tell me aloud.

‘Well, it is a mystery. But come now,' he said in his peremptory
manner, ‘this is a party, and there are many people here I wish you to meet.'

He took me by the elbow and led me into the great, chattering crowd.

‘You know I can't abide the great and the good,' I murmured.

‘Oh don't be such an inverted snob. There are many people here today who have remarkable interests and passions–architects, librarians, engineers, writers, musicians, and a few businessmen and financiers for good measure–for art and science also depend upon healthy investment. How is our culture to improve and grow unless we share our knowledge? And where else would a Medjay officer like you get to consort with them?'

‘You are like one of your bees, going from flower to flower, sampling the nectar of this and that…'

‘That is quite a good analogy, except that it makes me sound like a dilettante.'

‘My friend, I would never accuse you of being a dilettante, nor a dabbler, nor an amateur. You are a kind of philosopher mixed with an inward-seeking adventurer.'

He smiled, satisfied.

‘I like the sound of that. This world and the Otherworld are full of curiosities and mysteries. It would take many lifetimes to understand them all. And disappointingly, it seems to me we only have one…'

Before I could escape with grace, he introduced me to a group of middle-aged men who were conversing together under the awning. They were all affluently dressed, in linens and jewellery of finest quality. Each of them examined me curiously, like an object of strange interest that perhaps they might purchase, at a bargain price.

‘This is Rahotep, one of my oldest friends. He is a chief detective here in Thebes–he specializes in murders and mysteries! Some of us think he should have been made Head of the city Medjay at the last opportunity.'

I tried to deal with this public flattery as best I could, although I loathed it, as Nakht knew very well.

‘As I'm sure you are all aware, my dear friend's rhetoric is famous. He can turn mud into gold.'

They nodded all at the same time, apparently delighted by this.

‘Rhetoric is a dangerous art. It is the manipulation of the difference, one might say the
distance
, between truth and image,' said a small, fat man with a face like a sat-upon cushion, the startled blue eyes of a baby, and an already-empty cup in his fist.

‘And in our times, that distance has become the means by which power is exercised,' said Nakht.

There followed a little awkward silence.

‘Gentlemen, this gathering is sounding almost subversive,' I said, to lighten the moment.

‘Surely it was ever thus? Rhetoric has been a force for persuasion since man began to speak, and to convince his enemy that he was indeed his friend…' said another of the men.

They tittered.

‘True. But how much more sophisticated it has all become now! Ay and his cronies sell us words as if they were truth. But words are treacherous and untrustworthy. I should know!' said the blue-eyed man, ostentatiously.

Several of them laughed, raised their hands and wagged their dainty fingers at that.

‘Hor is a poet,' explained Nakht.

‘Then you are a craftsman in the ambiguity of words. You master their hidden meanings. That is a very useful gift in these times,' I said.

He clapped his hands in delight, and hooted. I realized he was slightly drunk.

‘True, for these are times when no one may say what he really means. Nakht, my friend, where did you find this remarkable creature? A Medjay officer who understands poetry! Whatever next, dancing soldiers?'

The company laughed harder, determined to keep the mood light and easy.

‘I'm sure Rahotep will not mind if I reveal he too wrote verse when
he was younger,' said Nakht, as if to smooth over the hairline cracks that were beginning to appear in the conversation.

‘It was very bad indeed,' I replied. ‘And no evidence exists of it any more.'

‘But what happened, why did you give it up?' asked the poet solicitously.

‘I don't remember. I suppose the world took over.'

The poet turned to the company, wide-eyed with amusement.

‘“The world took over,” that is a good phrase, I may have to borrow that.'

The company nodded back, indulgently.

‘Be careful, Rahotep, I know these writers, they say “borrow” when they mean “steal.” You will soon read your words coming back to you on some privately circulated scroll of new verse,' said one of them.

‘And it will be a vicious little satire and not a love poem, if I know Hor,' said another.

‘Very little of what I do belongs in a poem,' I said.

‘And that, my friend, is why it is interesting, for otherwise all is artifice, and how easily one tires of artifice,' replied the poet, thrusting out his empty cup at a passing servant. ‘Give me the taste of truth any day,' he continued. The girl approached, refilled our cups, and departed, taking her quiet smile and the attention of several, although not all, of the men with her. I thought how little of reality this man would know. Then the conversation resumed.

‘The world has certainly changed greatly in these last years,' said another of the men.

‘And despite the advances in our international power, and the achievements of our great new constructions, and the standards of affluence which many of us now enjoy—'

‘Blah blah blah,' mocked the poet.

‘…not all the changes have been for the better,' agreed another.

‘I am against change. It is overrated. It improves nothing,' said Hor.

‘Come now, that is an absurd opinion, and goes against all sense. It is merely a sign of age, for as we get older, so we believe the world gets
worse, manners decline, standards of ethics and knowledge are eroded—' said Nakht.

‘And political life becomes more and more of a dismal farce…' interrupted the poet, draining his cup again.

‘My father is always complaining about such things, and I try to argue with him, and find I cannot,' I offered.

‘So let us be honest at least with each other. The great mystery is that we find ourselves ruled by men whose names we hardly know, in offices that remain inscrutable, under the governance of an old man, a megalomaniac without even a royal name, who seems to have cast his gruesome shadow over the world for as long as I can remember. Under the ambitions of the great General Horemheb, we have been engaged in a long and so-far fruitless war with our ancient enemies, when surely diplomacy might have done far more, and saved us the endless drain upon our finances. And as for the two royal children, it seems they are never to be allowed to grow up and take their rightful places at the centre of the life of the Two Lands. How has this come to pass, and how long can it continue?'