Tutankhamun: The Book of Shadows

by Nick Drake

  ‘She has a tattoo. Look—’ said Khety, showing me a snake, curling around her upper arm. The workmanship was crude, and cheap.

  ‘Her name was Neferet. She lived here alone. The landlord says she worked nights. So I think it’s safe to assume she worked in the clubs. Or the brothels.’

  I gazed at the lovely body. Why, once again, were there no signs of violence or struggle? No one could endure such agony without struggling, biting and gnawing at their own tongue and lips, as they strained for life against the bonds that must have tied wrists and ankles. But there was nothing. It was as if all this had been accomplished in a dream. I moved around the room, looking for clues, but could see nothing. As I walked back to the bare couch, sunlight filtered in through the narrow window, and across the girl’s body. And it was only then that I noticed, on the shelf next to the sleeping couch, caught in the angle of the strong, elongated morning light, the faintest trace of a circle in the dust; the mark of a cup that had been placed there, and was now gone.

  A ghost cup; a cup of dreams. I thought back to my first instinct, that the killer of the lame boy had administered the juice of the poppy, or some other potent narcotic, to his victim to placate him while he undertook his gruesome labour. The secret behind the Two Lands in our time–behind its great new buildings and temples, its powerful conquests, and its glittering promises of wealth and success to the luckiest of those who come here to labour and serve and somehow survive–is that the grinding miseries, daily sufferings and endless banalities of life are mitigated, for more and more people, by the delusions of narcotics. Once wine was the means to artificial happiness; now things are much more sophisticated, and what was one of the great secrets of medicine has become the only bliss many find in this life. That this euphoria is an illusion is irrelevant, at least until its effects wear off, leaving the user abandoned to the same miseries that motivated the flight from reality. The children of elite families now regularly relieve the tensions and so-called pressures of their affluent, meaningless lives in this way. And others, who have for one reason or another fallen through the support network of their families, find themselves soon descending the staircase of shadows to the underworld, where people sell the last things they possess–their bodies and their souls–for an instant of bliss.

  In these days, trade of all kinds has extended its routes and tracks into the furthest and strangest parts of the world. So along with the essentials of the kingdom’s economic power–timber, stone, ores, gold, labour–the new luxury commodities make their way here, by land and sea and river: rare animal skins, live clever monkeys, giraffes, gold trinkets, textiles, subtle new perfumes…the endless parade of fashionable and desirable objects. And also, of course, the secret things; the merchandise of dreams.

  Physicians and priests have always used the potent parts of certain plants; some, like the poppy, are so powerful that just a few distilled drops in a beaker of water are sufficient to lull the senses of the patient before an exceptionally painful procedure is enacted, such as amputation. I remember one indication of this is that the pupils dilate. I know this because the prostitutes of the night city magnify their allure by taking the same thing to brighten their jaded, weary eyes. But the dosage is a delicate matter–too much and the eyes bloom in the strange, unreal light of the drug, only to close for ever in death.

  I explained my idea to Khety.

  ‘But why doesn’t the killer just kill his victim with the drug, and then do his rearranging of the furniture?’ he asked.

  It was a good question.

  ‘It seems to matter to the killer that the “work” is conducted on a living body,’ I replied. ‘It’s at the heart of his obsession. His fetish…’

  ‘I hate that word,’ said Khety, unnecessarily. ‘It makes my skin crawl…’

  ‘We need to identify where this girl worked,’ I said.

  ‘The kids that end up in the city, doing what she did, have come from everywhere and nowhere. They change their names. They have no families. And they can’t ever leave.’

  ‘Go to the clubs and the brothels. See if you can trace her. Someone will have missed her.’

  I offered him the gold face.

  He nodded. ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I need you to do that while I follow up something else.’

  He looked at me, half-amused.

  ‘Anyone would think you didn’t like me any more.’

  ‘I’ve never liked you.’

  He grinned.

  ‘There’s something you’re not telling me…’

  ‘That’s an accurate deduction. Our long years together have not been wasted.’

  ‘So why don’t you trust me?’

  I touched my ear to confirm my silence, and gestured towards Thoth.

  ‘Ask him. He knows everything.’

  The baboon stared back at both of us with his very straight face.

  We went to a quiet inn, away from the busy part of the city. It was the middle of the morning, and everyone was at work, so the place was deserted. We sat down on benches at the back to drink our beer and eat the dish of almonds I had ordered from the silent but vigilant owner, leaning close to each other so that we might not be overheard. I told him everything that had happened the night and the day before. About the mysterious Khay, and Ankhesenamun, and the carving.

  He listened carefully, but said nothing, beyond asking for more information about what the palace was like. This was unusual. Normally, Khety has a rational opinion on everything. We have known each other for many years. I made sure he was appointed a Medjay officer in Thebes, to get him and his wife out of Akhetaten. Ever since then, he has been my assistant.

  ‘Why haven’t you spoken?’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  He drank deeply from his beer, as if thinking was thirsty work.

  ‘That family is nothing but trouble,’ he decided, eventually.

  ‘And I should feel grateful for this jewel of wisdom?’

  He grinned.

  ‘What I mean is: you shouldn’t get involved. It’s bad news.’

  ‘That’s what my wife said. But what do you propose I do? Leave the girl to her fate?’

  ‘You don’t know what her fate is. And she’s not a girl, she’s the Queen. You can’t be responsible for everyone. You’ve got your own family to think about.’

  I felt obscurely annoyed.

  He watched me.

  ‘But you do feel responsible, don’t you?’

  I shrugged, drained my beer cup, and rose to leave. Thoth was already straining at his leash.

  We walked out into the heat and light, Khety trotting to keep up with me.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ he said, as we dodged the crowds.

  ‘I’m going to see my friend Nakht. And you are going to find out everything you can about the disappearance of that girl. You know where to start looking. Make sure you come and find me later.’

  11

  To visit my old friend Nakht at his country house is to pass from the hot, dusty chaos of the city into a different, calmer and more rational world. He has used his great wealth to make his life as luxurious and pleasant as possible, by creating his own little kingdom of art and knowledge in his walled estate outside the city. His fame as a cultivator of flowers and bees there has earned him an unusual new title: ‘Overseer of the Gardeners of Amun.’ All the thousands of bouquets that decorate the temples at festivals, and those presented to the Gods themselves–to remind them of the afterlife–are grown under Nakht’s supervision.

  I walked out of the suburbs, through the southern gateway, and continued along the path towards his house. The sun crowned the sky, and the land shimmered in the heat of midday. I had not brought a sunshade, but the palms that lined the way provided enough protection. As I walked I observed the bountiful crops in their carefully tilled rows, which spread out in every direction. Here and there the glimmer of the water canals, overflowing from the inundation, reflected in lines the clear blue-white
of the sky. I passed few people, for all the labourers were taking their midday meal and beer, or sleeping in neat rows in any shade they could find, under carts, palm trees, or at the side of houses and grain barns, with their headscarves over their faces. High above us all, falcons spread their wide dark bronze wings in the thermals, drifting and wheeling as they gazed down at the world. I have often wondered what the world looks like from their high vantage that no man, condemned to walk the earth on his two legs, can ever share. I imagine the glittering serpent of the Great River, continuing from one end of the world to the other; and fanned out on either side the green and yellow patterns of the cultivation. Beyond that, the infinity of the Red Land, where the royal families build their tombs of eternal stone, and their attendant temples, on the margins of the wilderness, the desert, the place of great solitude. Perhaps they could see what we could not: what happens to the Sun when it sets beyond the unreachable horizon of the visible world. Is there truly a vast and perilous dark ocean, populated with gods and monsters, in that great beyond, where the Sun sails its nightly course on its barque, through the perils of the night? Is that what those birds of prey were telling us, with their sharp, high shrieks that sounded like cries of warning?

  I entered the first courtyard of Nakht’s long, low villa. His servant Minmose came running out to greet me, and hurried me inside, holding a sunshade solicitously over my head.

  ‘Your brain will bake in your skull like a duck’s egg, master, in the heat of this hour of the day. I would have sent a servant with a sunshade to accompany you, if I had known you were going to grace us with a visit.’

  ‘This is an impromptu call,’ I said.

  He bowed.

  ‘My master is working with his hives at the far end of the garden,’ he said.

  He offered to escort me–keen, I knew, to hear any news of the city; for even at this short distance, the country feels as remote as another world. But I know this place well, for I have come here alone, or with the girls, for many years. He slipped away, quietly as always, to the kitchen to prepare refreshments, and I walked out through the second courtyard, and paused for a moment to enjoy the glorious vista before me. In the city, we are crammed together like animals. Here, with the luxury of space, and between the high walls that secure the property, all is peaceful; it is like finding oneself walking through a living papyrus scroll depicting the good life of the afterlife.

  I walked along the tree-shaded length of a long, stone-lined pool; full of white and blue lotus flowers, it provides water for the flower beds and vegetable plots, as well as containing Nakht’s collection of ornamental fish. Cheerful gardeners, old and young, devotedly and calmly attended to the plants and trees, watering and weeding, trimming and pruning; obviously happy in their dedicated work. Creeping vines extended their curling shade along the pergolas. Unusual and exotic plants flourished exuberantly. Birds felt free to take advantage of everything, and they sang with pleasure. Waterfowl dipped and thrived in the cool shade of the papyrus plants that grew in the long pool. It was almost ridiculously beautiful, so distant did it seem from the city’s grandeur and grime and poverty.

  I found Nakht among his hives, smoking out the bees from their clay cylinders. I kept my distance, being no devotee of bees or their stings, and sat on a stool in the shade of a tree to amuse myself at his expense; for he looked like the crazed priest of a desert cult as he moved about, dancing and wafting the smoke at the fuzzy cloud of demented insects. He carefully decanted the combs into storage pots, and soon he had many of them, laid out on a tray.

  Then he stepped away, lifted his protective hood, and saw me watching him. He waved and came over, offering a pot of the honey.

  ‘For the children.’

  We embraced.

  A servant brought him a bowl and cloth, and then Minmose arrived with wine and snacks, which he set out on a low table. Nakht washed his sweaty but always elegant face. Then we sat together on stools in the shade, and he poured me some wine. I knew it would be excellent.

  ‘What brings you here on a working day?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m working.’

  He eyed me carefully, then saluted the Gods and took a long draught of his wine.

  ‘On what? Not that incident at the festival?’

  ‘Partly.’

  He looked intrigued.

  ‘I imagine the palace must be going crazier than my bees…’

  ‘Someone is certainly poking a stick into the royal hive…’

  He nodded.

  ‘So what did you make of it? A court conspiracy, perhaps?’ he asked, enthusiastically.

  ‘Probably not. I think it’s an aberration. At worst, someone within the hierarchies has encouraged a bunch of foolish young people into an act of naively irresponsible violence.’

  He looked almost disappointed.

  ‘Maybe so, but still it’s had a surprisingly powerful effect. Everyone is talking about it. It seems to have catalysed the dissent that’s been bubbling under the surface of everything for years now. People are even whispering about a possible coup…’

  ‘And who would command such a thing?’ I countered.

  ‘There is only one man. General Horemheb,’ he said with some satisfaction.

  I sighed.

  ‘That would be no improvement on the present regime,’ I said.

  ‘It would definitely be much worse, for Horemheb’s vision of the world is governed by his life in the army. He has no humanity at all,’ he replied. ‘But in any case, we are in trouble, for this has made the King look vulnerable. And what king can afford to look vulnerable? He has never been one of the warrior kings. It’s as if the dynasty has grown weaker and stranger with every generation. And now he is powerless…’

  ‘And more and more vulnerable to other influences,’ I said.

  Nakht nodded. ‘He’s never really been able to assert any of his own authority, partly because after Akhenaten no one would countenance it, and partly because he’s grown up under the dire shadow of Ay. And what a tyrant he turned out to be. No wonder the boy can’t exercise his own power.’

  We enjoyed sharing our private, but profound loathing of the Regent.

  ‘I went to see Ay this morning,’ I said, watching Nakht’s face.

  He looked amazed.

  ‘Why on earth would you do such a thing?’

  ‘Not because he asked for me, but because I had to.’

  ‘How curious,’ said my friend, leaning forward and pouring me more of the excellent wine.

  ‘I met Ankhesenamun last night,’ I said, after a suitably dramatic pause.

  ‘Ah…’

  He nodded slowly, beginning to piece together the evidence I was carefully feeding him.

  ‘She sent one of her people to fetch me.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Khay. Chief Scribe,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I know him; walks around as if he has a gold cane up his arse. And what did she say to you?’

  ‘She had something to show me. A stone. From Akhetaten. A carving of the Aten.’

  ‘Interesting. But not remarkable.’

  ‘Not until you saw someone had completely chipped out the Aten disc, the hands holding the ankhs, both the royal and holy names, and the eyes and the noses of the royal figures,’ I said.

  Nakht looked off into his garden’s idyllic picture of colour and shade.

  ‘A little bit of iconoclasm goes a long way, I imagine, especially in that palace.’

  ‘Exactly. They are all terrified because they don’t know what it means.’

  ‘And what do you think?’ he enquired.

  ‘Well, it could mean nothing more than someone with an old gripe has wasted their time working out how to send the royal family a nasty insult.’

  ‘But the coincidence…’ he pressed me.

  ‘I know. We don’t believe in coincidences, do we? We believe in connections. The dead boy with the broken bones; the elite amulet; and now also a dead girl with a gold mask hid
ing her missing face.’

  Nakht looked aghast.

  ‘How awful! Such barbarity. The times are definitely getting worse.’

  I nodded.

  ‘There’s something about the sophistication of all of these things, and the consistency of the style, that makes me think the object left in the palace could be connected; I was wondering if the obliteration of the sun disc could also mean something specific…’

  ‘Such as?’ he asked, doubtfully.

  ‘An eclipse,’ I ventured.

  ‘Well now, that is a very interesting idea,’ he said, absorbed by the ramifications. ‘The Sun in battle destroyed by the force of darkness, and then restored and reborn again…the symbolism is potent. And very much to the point at the moment…’

  ‘Something like that,’ I replied. ‘So I thought I would consult the man who knows more about the stars than anyone else I know.’

  ‘Well, it’s an allegory,’ he smiled, quickly warming to his subject.

  I had no idea what he meant.

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Let’s walk.’

  So we strolled up one of the paths, between the flowerbeds, and he began to explain. As always, with Nakht, I listened without understanding everything, for I know that to interrupt him with questions will only lead to another, equally wonderful, but endlessly perplexing digression.

  ‘Think about how we understand the mysteries of the world around us. Ra, the God of the Sun, sails across the blue ocean of the day in the Golden Ship of Day. But at sunset the God crosses to the Ship of Night and disappears into the Otherworld. The black ocean of the night is revealed, with its bright stars–the Sharp One, the brightest, and the five stars of Horus and the stars of Osiris, the Pathway of the Further Stars in the height of the sky, and the travelling star of the dawn–all sailing the dark waters, following the Sun whose night journey, with its perils and tests, we can never see but only imagine. We liken this in the Book of the Dead to the journey of the soul after death. Are you following me so far?’