A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore

by Mohamed Mansi Qandil

  “For days,” Horemheb replied. “I was hoping I might meet you before I was forced to storm the city and invoke a bloodbath.”

  “Your army is ready, then?”

  “Of course. We have had the city surrounded for some time. The guards on the walls see us every day, as do the farmers and the workmen who pass through the gates each day. Yet no one has said anything.”

  “It seems that everyone is collaborating in the downfall of my city, with no word spoken to me. What were you going to do with me? Storm the palace and kill me?”

  Horemheb replied, in some distress, “I should not have dared to do that.”

  “But I left you no way around it. So that’s the way it is . . .”

  “The country is in a state of collapse, my lord. I must hasten northward to face the enemy there, and your city stands in my way. I’ve got to get through it first, whatever the price.”

  “And it is I who am the price . . . a negligible price for an honorable mission—is this not what you tell yourself every morning?”

  Horemheb was silent for a little while, glancing about as if in an effort to restrain his agitation—and it was strange that emotion should be evident in a man who was never moved. At last he said, “I had hoped to find a solution.”

  The Pharaoh was gasping, as another wave of pain seized him. He clutched at the dust and the grass, trying not to shift his position. His face was drenched in cold sweat. Horemheb moved forward to offer him a helping hand, but Akhenaten gestured for him to stay where he was. Trying to speak strongly and clearly, he said, “And did you think you would find such a solution?”

  Horemheb hesitated a moment, gazing into the silent blankness of the night, at the tranquil lake, the lifeless moon. Then he spoke. “Of course. We must cover this country’s exposed bones, give up this god that has corrupted everyone, and return, all of us, to Thebes.”

  Akhenaten regarded him steadily and calmly, doing his best to conceal the pain within him. “What an exceedingly cruel solution,” he said. “You ought to have stormed my palace and killed me first.”

  Suddenly, Horemheb went slack, casting aside his spear, and from his great height he fell to his knees before the Pharaoh, crying hoarsely, “My lord, I beg of you . . .”

  “By Atun—such a show of weakness! How can you defeat the enemy if you fall down this way before a helpless and ailing Pharaoh? Do you not see what you are doing to yourself?”

  “My lord . . . your whole body is perspiring and giving off a foul odor—are you ill?”

  “I am dying.”

  “What!”

  “I have taken poison. I bought it from an apothecary in the city who did not recognize me. I told him that I was going to administer it to my wife’s lover and I . . .”

  His words were cut off as a spasm of nausea assailed him, and he began to writhe upon the ground, rolling in the dust. He was as emaciated as if he were about to vanish. “My god,” thought Horemheb, “what a wretched and tormented soul I see before me.” He felt tears starting in his eyes. So much anguish, with eternity still seemingly so distant and unattainable. Was there any chance of rescuing him, or was he altogether too late? His face beneath the light of the moon was deathly pale. “My lord,” said Horemheb, “I can carry you, and . . .”

  “Don’t. But hear what I say. Marry my daughter Ankhesen to that boy, Tut. Make him Pharaoh. And build me a secret tomb, so that those scoundrel priests of Amun cannot disinter my coffin.”

  “I shall, my lord, I swear it.”

  Akhenaten’s body convulsed once more, and his breath came rapidly. He clutched Horemheb’s hand, as if fearful he would go away. Yet he was a king, dying there in the mud and dust, with nothing to soothe his pain and grief. Weakness pervaded his body, and his fingers grew slack, as he faded slowly from existence, sinking further into the dust. The sound of his breathing gradually ceased, and his body grew still, but his eyes remained open. Horemheb waited long before closing them with his own hand.

  11Thebes

  At Last

  AISHA STOOD IN THE SHADOW OF THE STONE GATES. She had walked a long time among the barley fields, hearing the stalks of grain whispering to her beneath the wind, as if warning her. She paid no heed to this; the valley seemed familiar and benign in the light of day. She wore the same khaki garments Howard had brought her, which made her feel more connected to this place. Today she was alone, Howard having left her early in the morning, taking Abdel Aal with him and crossing the river to the opposite bank. He had said that he might be gone all day, but that she could wander freely, without risk. She knew this—she saw the meekness in the eyes of the fellahin as they pulled up the noxious weeds, bending over stalks of barley and giving thanks for the ears of grain. She was one of them. They might have abused her body and broken her spirit, but still she was one of them. Her route brought her to the gate of Medinet Habu. Depicted on the front of the structure she saw the snake staring at her, and she hesitated a moment, then went on into the temple.

  She was surrounded by walls of stone whose antiquity lent them a kind of dignity and solidity. Atop the walls she saw extensive platforms, which had been constructed for the soldiers who were positioned there to defend the city. She passed through a series of little rooms, to which sunlight penetrated through small apertures. The building resembled an old castle in which kings dwelt—perhaps the kings had used to come here seeking protection when their enemies swept the eastern shore. She entered a broad atrium, and suddenly the walls were full of brilliantly colored paintings: pictures of a great king—Howard had told her on his first visit here with her that this was Ramses II. He reclined lazily amidst his favorite concubines, who offered him flowers and perfumes and things to drink, and gazed rapturously at him, while he smiled in contentment. But contentment did not last long. As Aisha walked on she found that the drawings changed: the Pharaoh left his comfortable bed and mounted his war chariot. The concubines had vanished, and enemies had appeared before him, carrying swords and lances. All signs of felicity were gone from his face, replaced by a pitilessly cold expression.

  The corridors and rows of columns intersected; she spied a statue of greenish basalt, and beside it another that had fallen to the ground: the same king, in a moment of intoxication, and the moment of his collapse. Aisha reached the interior courtyard. It was darker here, but the paintings were still vivid. At last the king appeared in the act of offering his sacrifices to the gods, his head bowed and his posture one of extreme humility. Was he giving thanks for a victory, or asking forgiveness for a defeat?

  She heard a noise like the rustle of wings, and something that sounded like faint cries. She turned in alarm, but saw no one. The noises grew louder, and when she lifted her face and gazed upward she found that the ceiling was filled with bats, flitting about, colliding with the unyielding walls, and falling, broken-winged, like sightless ghosts. She drew back and tried to retrace her steps, but the bats descended and began to whirl around her. All at once the light failed; the place went startlingly dark, and she lost her way to the exit. She began to hurry—it seemed to her that she spied the shadows of other animals, animals that darted among the columns, as if the wolves, too, had awoken. She hastened her steps still more, and found that she was lost in a colonnaded maze, the bats still in pursuit. She stopped in consternation when she caught sight of someone at the end of the colonnades. He was seated beside a column, before him a built-up fire and a tin pot for making tea. He watched her approach with a penetrating stare, as if he had known that the bats would lead her to him.

  He spoke in a voice made frightening by the silence of the temple. “Come forth, woman who has roused the creatures of the night!”

  It was Abdel Rasul, the man she had seen on the day she first set foot upon the western shore: he wore the same clothing and the same turban, his large feet bare. She stopped where she was, rigid, afraid to move and cause the bats to attack her. The man did not get up, but spoke again. “These bats have not pursued you without cause,”
he said. “They are the guardians of the temple, prohibiting all whom they perceive as a threat to this place from passing the gates or wandering the corridors.”

  Shaking, she replied, “I am no threat. I came here before, and nothing happened . . .”

  With unmistakable scorn, the man said, “You came with the foreigner—I know that. I also know that he brought you here after the gateways to the valley had been shut in his face—he wants you to open up its secrets to him.”

  Aisha was frightened—this man knew a lot about her. “I haven’t told him anything,” she said. “Besides, I don’t know anything about this place to begin with.”

  “It is not for nothing that the creatures of the night have awoken, woman. You stand now in the heart of the temple where the gods receive their sacrifices and reveal their secrets, and the wolves troubled you from the first moment you entered this valley until you arrived here.”

  His voice resounded throughout the temple. He made no move from his place—he had no intention of hurting her, or so it seemed—but the knowledge that he had watched her every step so carefully made her fear him. Her throat dry, she said, “The wolves have always followed me—but that means nothing.”

  “Our ancestors knew that wolves were capable of opening locked doors. Their luminous eyes can pierce the veils of darkness. Everyone in the valley knows that they are bringers of light. Anyone who reads the inscriptions on the temple walls knows that they watched over Horus when he was young. Perhaps you yourself were one of these creatures.”

  He spoke in riddles—she couldn’t tell whether he was warning her or threatening her, but one thing for certain was that he could not have been more mistaken about her.

  “Perhaps you have me confused with someone else,” she said. “I’d better go now.”

  His voice rose in anger, startling her. “You shall see what you shall see,” he said, “and you know what you know, whatever you may say about it. What I fear is that you may pass along what you know to that pale-eyed foreigner. The valley is full of them, and if we give our secrets away to them they will pull the land out from under us and cast us into the river.”

  Aisha shuddered. Somehow this man made her feel that she was guilty of something. He spoke more softly, and held out a glass of hot tea to her, but she shook her head. He took up his staff again and pointed at a block of stone. “Rest a little here on this stone,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. Have some tea if you like—only listen to me.”

  She sat down facing him, but she dared not reach out and take the proffered tea. Now he spoke calmly. “Those foreigners,” he told her, “believe that they alone are able to read the inscriptions. But we also read them, and we understand their meaning better than those men do—because they are ours. But we don’t tell them that. We let them believe in our ignorance and lack of insight. I shall tell you a tale that is inscribed upon the wall of this temple. I don’t believe this foreigner you came with knows anything about it. When the war was waged between Horus and Set, god of darkness, Set managed to pluck out one of Horus’s eyes. It was a sacred eye, which saw what no human could see. To this day that eye is still lost. Many people have possessed it for a moment in time, and assumed the power to pierce through the veils, but they lost it for not understanding how to wield it properly.”

  Aisha, unwilling to believe such fables, said, “I have nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Who knows?” he replied. “All I wish to tell you is that you must be careful of this stranger—otherwise, you will be punished. That is all I have to say. And now you may go.”

  She got up and turned away from him, amazed, despite his assurances, that he had not harmed her. It was odd that she found her way now easily, and that the bats no longer followed her. The air outside was still warm, the foliage brilliant in its greenness, the river pure blue, and she had woken at last from a murky nightmare. She hastened her steps until she reached the house and shut all the doors and windows behind her. She sat upon her bed and pulled the mosquito netting around herself, as if to conceal herself from the penetrating eyes of the old man—indeed, from the eyes of all who spied upon her.

  The days of waiting and of madness will not end! That old man, Lord Carnarvon, has left his chilly lair in the north and is coming to Luxor, requesting a meeting with me in all haste. Up to this point, our relations have been excellent. I haven’t forgotten that he rescued me from that time of wandering and aimlessness, nor do I think he has forgotten that I added to his collection of artifacts pieces that were rare beyond what any museum dreams of owning. But the years are passing by, while my desperate search continues unabated. Ever since I discovered that empty tomb, I have labored in the valley like one possessed, a team of diggers behind me, baffled, not knowing what it is exactly that I want—I myself haven’t known. All the rocks and caves and empty trenches mocked me. I’ve had to calm down a little in order to meet Lord Carnarvon, who has come expressly for me.

  We disembarked from the felucca on the eastern shore, Abdel Aal and I, and the new donkey I bought at the village market—he wasn’t a good one: he was dirt-stained and, try as we might to wash him, there was no restoring him to his original color. But he was what was available. It was an inauspicious thing to take him across the river, but I needed a conveyance for the sack in which we carry our provisions. The luxurious dahabeahs moored along the shore had multiplied, along with the variety of flags flown over them: English, Americans, French—even the Germans, defeated and bankrupted though they were in the last war, had a small dahabeah. Naturally, Davis’s dahabeah was in its place—perhaps he was even now lying at ease, his gray-haired chest bare beneath the winter sun, while I hurried off to the hellish scene that awaited me in the Winter Palace.

  I left Abdel Aal and the donkey. The hotel’s terrace—whose design was modeled after English gardens—was full of activity, rosy-faced people sitting companionably drinking lemonade and cold beer and contemplating the white sails plying the river. They exchanged chitchat and showed off the fake artifacts they’d just bought. All of them appeared to be strangers—it was as if they wore skillfully crafted masks. Lord Carnarvon was not among them—perhaps he had swallowed a handful of his various medications and way lying in bed, gazing toward the sun from behind the blinds and imagining his cells warming up.

  I crossed the crowded reception area, exchanging a few words of greeting with the hotel employees, and studied the pharaonic art that filled the walls, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Some of the frescoes were based upon my own paintings, but they’d been crudely executed. I climbed the stairs leading to the wing Carnarvon occupied, pausing briefly to catch my breath. I knocked at the door, which was opened by Lady Evelyn. A few months before, I had thought her the most beautiful woman alive—all I needed was one touch of her fingertips. But now she looked like an animate wax effigy, her movements calculated, her steps constrained. She gave me a half-handshake and the ghost of a smile, and offered me a martini garnished with a cherry—I had not known that she began drinking so early. Then, abruptly, she left me alone.

  After a while I heard Lord Carnarvon coughing as he approached, wearing a dressing gown of English wool. He was looking pale. Permitting me to take his elbow and lead him to a chair, he sat down across from me and fixed his eyes on me, waiting for me to begin talking, stating my modest achievements until he should shake his head, vaguely derisive. I did not speak. He stared at me with weary eyes, then said suddenly, “I hear you discovered a tomb that was entirely empty.”

  I hadn’t expected the conversation to begin this way, with a mocking, faintly pitying inquiry. The news had spread quickly, but such was always the case: diggers would pass the news along to smugglers, and from there it would travel to the buyers and other traders, until it reached the occupants of the dahabeahs, and the old gentleman himself, who would receive it along with his morning coffee.

  “Not quite. Rather . . .”

  He didn’t permit me to finish. Obviously bored, he said, “Pe
rhaps others had got there before you. This valley is no longer of any use—every stone in it has been turned over by at least two or three people.”

  He took a draft from a glass of water that sat beside him. I left my own glass untouched.

  “There have been some disappointments, perhaps,” I said, “but this tomb has filled a gap in the historical record. I found there a broken tablet upon which the name of the king who succeeded Akhenaten is mentioned. It is surely a reference to Tutankhamun. No one had discovered this tomb, nor had anyone robbed it.”

  He lifted his hand to silence me. He looked unconvinced by all I had said. I observed that his long fingers had grown skinny and wrinkled, so that they looked rather like bird claws. “That will do, sir,” he said. “It is time we concluded this business—we can’t keep dreaming forever.”

  In despair, stricken all at once with defeat by his words, I replied, “We can keep digging a while longer. I’ll reduce the workers’ expenses—reduce my own wages if you wish.”

  The old man shook his head stubbornly. He was more displeased than I had imagined. “The problem is not the expenses,” he said. “I know that prices went up after that dreadful war, so that a single day now costs us a full five pounds. The real difficulty, however, is that the years are passing by, and death hovers by my bedside. I have become convinced that I shall not live to see this discovery. Let us have done with this whole affair, Howard.”

  “But,” I said hoarsely, “you did promise me a few more months—you promised that we might carry on with the work until the end of the season.”

  “And can you guarantee me that death will wait?”

  It enraged me that he was taking this self-pitying line of argument, this false surrender, this trumped-up expectation of personal annihilation. The bitter war years had passed him by and he had lived through them, even as millions in their prime had perished. I tossed him the latest document, in the hope that it might stir his interest. “In this tomb, which everyone thinks was empty, I discovered a number of intriguing things.”