City of the Horizon

by Anton Gill

  That evening there was no one in that part of the Valley, though two tombs nearby had been recently sealed and should still have had guards posted. Yet there had been someone else there after all, for they had heard whispering, seen the glow of torchlight reflected on a rock, and the tiny avalanche of rock and dust that had cascaded down nearby was too great to have been made by an animal, even a light-footed jackal. Having only one servant with him, Amotju had decided not to investigate. Once home, however, he sent a man off to report the incident to the Medjays, and gave orders that for the time new guards be placed on his father’s tomb.

  The next morning, though, he awoke to find something to make his heart jump in fear within him. Hanging in a little woven cage, from the very window-frame of his room, was an ichneumon, the little eater-of-crocodile’s-eggs which he had venerated as his personal god since childhood. The diminutive mongoose twisted and turned in distress within the confines of its narrow cell, and was further disturbed as its movements made the cage swing in the air, and it missed its footing on the wicker floor.

  The animal was unharmed, but round its neck and around the front right paw strips of red linen were loosely tied. The significance was clear. Amotju, forcing himself to breathe deeply and regularly to keep fear at bay and quieten his pumping heart, cut the cage down and, after cautiously removing the swathes of linen — worship did not safeguard you from being bitten — took the animal to the River to release it himself, taking care that no one saw him, before telling his household that he would be leaving that day, taking personal command of Splendour-of-Amun. Very few people knew about his personal god, and how they could reach him through it; and if they were powerful enough to deliver a warning to the very heart of his house, they were people to respect. Amotju’s instincts told him to disappear for a while; but this was to be a strategic retreat. Whoever’s enmity he had attracted would have to be flushed out and fought. Amotju never once thought of giving ground. He had decided on the river journey to give himself time to think, to decide which of his friends he could enlist for aid. It hadn’t been pure chance that he had docked at the City of the Horizon. He had not forgotten Huy; even as a child, when they had shared the same tutor, Huy’s father and old Ramose being friends too and having married sisters, the little scribe-to-be had been a problem-solver. From what he had heard, that penchant hadn’t ceased with the years. Amotju’s informants had told him that quite unconsciously, but not at all surprisingly, Huy had frequently invoked the fury of his superiors by questioning poor or unjust decisions. It was only by some very discreet and judicious string-pulling that he had been able to save his friend from the sentence of exile that had been recommended for Huy immediately after the death of the pharaoh, Smenkhkare.

  ‘Who do you think is after you?’ Having heard as much of the story as Amotju chose to tell him, Huy, who had been watching the western bank of the River scud by as he listened, with its little knots of white villages and palms punctuating the green strip, turned to his friend. It was midday, and they sat under an awning amidships. Apart from the helmsmen, the rest of the crew found shelter from the sun in what shade they could. The wind had slackened, the sail wallowed resentfully, and the barge made slow progress against the stream.

  ‘Hardly the grave robbers. I don’t think they were even aware of our presence.’

  ‘But there must be a connection. Did you see anyone else between returning from the Valley and going to bed?’

  ‘No.’ Huy noted the fractional hesitation in his friend’s voice. ‘I’m trading on long acquaintance; but did you go to bed alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t that unusual?’

  ‘No. My wife and I no longer do anything together; she runs the household, controls the business accounts, and is happy. And I don’t need to take a concubine every night. If I had, I would have sent her back to her quarters before sleeping.’

  ‘Let me think for a moment.’ Huy turned back to his view of the riverbank, moving slowly, so as not to offend his friend. His thoughts for the moment were for himself.

  He was being offered an opportunity to work, and his heart was as grateful for employment as a thirsty gazelle in the desert is for an oasis pool; but this employment was strange. He could see that this was no matter for the Medjays, whose lower ranks could keep order on the streets and investigate attacks on traders and even boats, but whose upper echelons had always been the instruments of the pharaoh and the state; and he was unable to resist the lure of a problem to solve, as Amotju had thought and hoped, but he hesitated; where would the work lead? His eyes were screwed tight against the sun and he used this to glance across unnoticed at his friend busy mixing water and wine. Amotju was his age, but the gods had shaped him tall and sleek, given him money and position, safety and power. He sat there, cross-legged in his pristine kilt, again of wool, not linen, pouring the good Kharga wine. Few lines marred his face, the kohl round his eyes was immaculately applied. He owned this very boat, and five more like it, on which Huy would have been grateful to have just a job. His marriage, though apparently dead inside, was still at least intact, and he had his children. He also had five concubines, twenty house-servants, and who knew how many slaves and paid skilled men in his fleet. He seemed like a man whom nothing could shake; and yet…

  Yesterday, as they had sat on board together in the firelight and dined, the duck meat heavy on Huy’s stomach as he had not eaten such food for months, Amotju had painted a rosy but vague picture of Huy’s future. He had waited to broach the real reason for taking his friend with him so precipitately until today, when the boat was well on its way; when there was no turning back.

  And yet Huy would have had to move, had to have done something. Clearly Amotju needed his help, or thought he did, badly enough to ensure that he couldn’t do anything but give it. Perhaps his friend was just an instrument of fate after all. He watched the eternal sunlight dance on the water, catching for a moment the metallic turquoise of a dragonfly as it darted-and-paused across the surface.

  Huy rubbed his belly. At least he would eat well for a time if he took this job; and he knew already that Amotju had said enough to hook him, and that Amotju had more to say, if he could only coax it out of him. He turned back.

  ‘What have you heard about the new king?’

  Amotju was taken aback. ‘He is our lord.’

  ‘He is very young.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He is a child. It will be four years before he rules. Then, those in a position to find themselves in favour with him will be fortunate.’

  ‘I say again, what do you mean?’

  ‘That the time to build is now.’

  ‘But what has that to do with the threat of my life?’

  ‘To build, people need funds. Tell me more about Rekhmire.’

  Amotju poured wine. On board, he liked to do these things himself. ‘Are you reading my heart?’

  ‘I would just like you to tell me what you have not told me.’

  ‘I have told you all that I know.’ Amotju had deliberated about whether to do more than sketch in the details of his relationship with Mutnefert. He had not said that she was also the mistress of Rekhmire, though he had hinted at a rivalry between the priest and himself.

  ‘No, you have not.’

  ‘I —’

  ‘If I am to help you…’ Huy paused.

  ‘It is true that for a man who half a year ago had little but his former reputation, Rekhmire has built up wealth with astonishing speed. Of course, he has been careful; he has graded the increase of his affluence so that it will seem natural, but even so,’ Amotju concluded.

  ‘And what does he buy?’

  ‘He buys people presents.’ Amotju could not keep the resentment out of his voice.

  ‘Meaning, he buys people?’

  ‘There are those who have the ear of Horemheb.’

  ‘And of the king?’

  ‘The king! He is not there yet; he is in the Northern Capi
tal. Besides, he is a child, he will do what Horemheb tells him —’ Resentment had brought the words out in a rush; this was not at all what Amotju had planned. Nevertheless, his need to trust somebody was stampeding him into taking Huy into his confidence far more quickly than he had intended. He poured himself more wine. The heat of the afternoon, as the Seqtet Boat of the Sun began its downward journey to the west, beat through the linen awning. He pulled off his wig, and ran a hand over his head before wrapping it loosely in a shawl.

  ‘But does he need to? He is already a man with power,’ Huy persisted.

  ‘That power he has already bought.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he cannot have built up so much so quickly.’

  Amotju was committed now; he decided to ignore the notes of caution sounding in the back of his heart, and to bring Huy completely into his confidence. Huy would not use the knowledge to buy back favour for himself; their friendship was too old for that.

  ‘Come on,’ said Huy, half humorously. ‘I know you and secrets. You have never been able to keep one for long.’

  ‘I cannot keep them from those I have decided to trust,’ replied Amotju, ‘but you must swear by Horus to keep what I will tell you to yourself.’

  ‘I cannot swear by the old gods; but I cannot do the work you ask of me unless you tell me all you know, even all you suspect.’

  ‘Then I think that the death threat came from Rekhmire. If there were any way of proving that, he would never have sent it; but success has made him very confident and he has little time left before the pharaoh arrives in the Southern Capital. The people expect it and even Horemheb cannot thwart them for ever.’

  ‘Why has he so little time?’

  Amotju made a gesture of impatience. ‘You have been away for a long while. You must be prepared for many changes now that you are returning. For a decade the city has been in decline. After the court left, there was no rule. Only the old priests who stayed on gathered what remained of the reins of power, and used it to their own ends. The Valley was left unpoliced. The tombs of the great pharaohs lay there, unprotected, full of riches; gold mines on their doorstep.’

  ‘You mean that Rekhmire —’

  ‘I can prove nothing. Of course there were gangs formed of the men who used to quarry out the tombs; they knew the layouts, the false passages. But one group has been operating to the exclusion of the others. They take little, but they take the best. They store it somewhere in the Valley and they must get it away by river. But their time is running out. Horemheb is back, and he is galvanising the army and the Medjays. He wants to restore dignity to the ancestors and through that to give pride in itself back to the Black Land. Grave robbers who are caught now are impaled on the west bank of the River and left there to be picked clean. Rekhmire will have to close his operation soon; but he will sail as close to the wind as he can.’

  ‘Using the grave goods to buy influence with Horemheb!’ Huy smiled. This may be a deadlier snake than Apopis. I think what you ask of me is more than I can do.’

  ‘You will have all the support you need. But of course you will not live at my house, and you will work alone.’

  Huy did not say that that was how he would prefer it. He also realised that if the investigation misfired, Amotju would not know him, and the death that would be given him would make him look on impaling as merciful.

  ‘Give my work a name,’ he said, finally.

  ‘Bring down Rekhmire.’ Amotju did not add his private reason for wishing this. It was enough for Huy to think Rekhmire a political rival and no more; in the same way he had not given voice to his suspicion that the death threat stemmed less from his having disturbed grave robbers than from the priest’s jealousy of Mutnefert. Amotju hadn’t told Huy that he’d visited his mistress on the night he’d returned from visiting his father’s tomb.

  Huy was working to subjugate his own pride. ‘And give my work a price,’ he said.

  ‘If you succeed, you may name it.’ Amotju smiled, and poured more wine. Already, he felt, as the alcohol worked on him, they were halfway towards his goal.

  Huy’s feelings were very different. He was thinking of this time tomorrow, when Splendour-of-Amun would be docking at the Southern Capital. It seemed as if the cold hand of Set closed over his heart.

  THREE

  It was as if he had never been away. Still far downstream, the low cliffs of the great buildings could be sensed rather than seen as they rose from and blended with the land that surrounded them. As the barge drew nearer, Huy could see that the garish paintwork had faded, that statues had fallen, and pylons cracked. He wondered what the town to the south of the temple complex would be like. He remembered the teeming narrow streets behind the broad boulevards, the confusion of the markets, the sour fishy smell of the docks. He noticed that several ferries toiled between the east and west banks, between the city of the living and the city of the dead, across the broad grey-brown sweep of the River.

  So familiar, and yet so alien. He had lived the first twenty-three years of his life here, and now he was returning to it a stranger. There would be few who would remember him, or acknowledge him if they did. But that might be to his advantage, given the work he had to do now.

  As the barge made its approach and the boatswain stood in the prow ready to blow his horn to warn the traffic of their arrival, Amotju beckoned a sailor over.

  ‘When we dock,’ Amotju told Huy, ‘I will disembark first. There will be people from my house to meet me and if I am seen arriving with a stranger there will be questions. You will wait on board until the unloading is under way, and then leave with Amenworse.’ He indicated the sailor, a heavy-shouldered man who looked like a northerner. ‘He will take you to a safe lodging.’

  ‘You are well organised. Did the gods forewarn you that you were going to meet me?’

  Amotju grinned. ‘No, but in my business I have occasionally carried special passengers who did not wish attention to be drawn to their arrival or departure; so there are always contingency plans. But don’t worry. I will send word on ahead to let them know you are coming.’

  ‘Can I ask where that is?’

  ‘Let it be a surprise. You will be in good hands. I will join you there later.’

  After he had gone, Huy sat on the rear deck, watching the work of unloading: sacks of barley, rough-hewn cubes of white Tura limestone for Horemheb’s rebuilding programme, cedar logs from the lost empire bordering the Great Green Sea. Despite the thinness of the cargo, it was late afternoon before the work had finished. Huy had aimed to use this time to plan, to set out a strategy of campaign in his heart, but now as the sun sank once more he found that he had done nothing, thought nothing. Instead there was a well of panic in his stomach that not even the wine which Amotju had left him could fill. Indeed, he did not feel confident enough to drink. It was clear that for all his protestations, Amotju did not yet trust him; and for his part he could not trust his former schoolfellow either. The sailor, Amenworse, joining in the work of unloading with the rest, kept throwing him sidelong looks, and Huy wondered how much he had been told. To look busy he had taken out his palette and doodled on a limestone flake like a clerk checking and noting the offloaded stores.

  Finally the work was done. Before the sailors not deputed to remain on watch left the boat, bound, if Huy knew them at all, directly for the brothel district, Amenworse beckoned him. They were to leave together, concealed in the stream of people descending the gangplank.

  Waiting for them close by was a light rickshaw with its collapsible superstructure of linen — to protect its occupants from the sun — still up. It was not the only one on the rectangular patch of beaten earth a few steps up from the quay. Amenworse and Huy would attract no more attention than anyone else catching a ride into town.

  As soon as they were aboard, the two rickshawmen ducked under the towing bar, hoisted themselves in down to waist-level, and as the car behind them tilted, eased the vehicle forward and broke into a brisk trot. Huy noted that there
had been no discussion of fares or a destination named.

  As soon as they left the quayside they were enveloped in the clutter of streets, hedged in with mud-brick houses, the more prosperous of which had wooden doors and lintels. Many of the houses were severely run down, their walls scarred where the mud-stucco had fallen off, and the dreary brown colour of unrefreshed whitewash; though as many again were draped with flimsy palmwood scaffolding. The road was of hard-packed earth, for the town was built above the level of the River at its highest point of inundation, and Nut rarely shed tears for her happy people — so paving was unnecessary. At this time of day, few were about; people would either be at home or back at work after the afternoon rest. In the open squares which punctuated their route, traders had laid out their wares on sheets: pitchers of palm-oil, cosmetics, dried fish, dates; and in the shade butchers protected their meat from the flies and the sun by wrapping it in wet linen. Through gaps in the houses and at the end of lateral streets which made straight as a die for the shore, the passengers could catch glimpses of the sandstone cliffs of the great buildings, the ones built by the God Kings to last for ever. The facades teemed with workmen as the city prepared its renaissance.

  Huy looked at the straining backs of the rickshawmen, their heads wrapped in loose sacking turbans, as they hauled their way up the broader road which sloped gently out of the city centre towards the larger, less cramped houses of the merchants. Here he had often come as a boy to play as Amotju’s guest in old Ramose’s villa, and here little had changed. There was none of the sense of decay he had half expected, though it was true that several of the mansions stood empty, their gardens and fishponds neglected. Along the streets, palms and the occasional fig tree provided sparse shade, and great tanks set into the ground, laboriously replenished by slaves carrying jars filled at the River, ensured enough water to keep the whole area constantly green and cool.