by Nick Drake
And then Horemheb turned his attention to us. His blue-black hair was combed precisely from his imperious forehead. He wore a cuirass made of many overlapping black leather scales that imitated the feathered wings of a falcon. His shield, slung over his shoulder, was covered in cheetah skin, gilded along the edges, and with a gold plate in the centre bearing his name and office. These were the self-conscious trappings of a King; and he looked utterly self-possessed and confident wearing them.
His eyes were stony with contempt as he glanced at the three of us. He nodded to one of his men, who quickly removed the gags from Simut and Prince Zannanza. They coughed and spluttered, gasping at the smoky air.
‘The Prince Zannanza, pointless son of our great enemies, the Hittites. The Commander of the Palace Guard, Simut. And Rahotep, Seeker of Mysteries,’ he said. ‘I remember you well. You are a loyal servant of the Queen. And that of course is why you are here.’
‘I am here by her command,’ I said. ‘Life, prosperity, health to her. I am truly her loyal servant.’
‘Much good it will do you now. For with those futile words you have condemned yourself. And speaking of loyal servants, where is the Royal Envoy Nakht?’ he said.
None of us replied.
‘I know he was here with you. He cannot have escaped. My soldiers have conquered this valley and encircled this miserable hovel; they have orders to bring him to me alive. He will then be interrogated and executed. Stand up, Prince Zannanza, son of the Hittites.’
Zannanza did so, mustering all his courage to confront the general.
‘So this is the weak boy they thought to marry to the Queen of Egypt,’ he said. ‘They thought with this trivial juvenile they could prevent my great victory.’
He paused and glanced at his men. They laughed subserviently, coldly. But Horemheb did not laugh.
‘What should I do with you?’ he said, his face now very close to Prince Zannanza’s.
‘Let me go home,’ whispered the Prince. ‘Let me go home…’
Horemheb cupped his ear, as if he had not heard properly.
‘Speak up! Don’t whisper like a girl.’
‘Let me go home!’ cried Zannanza.
‘The Hittite prince wishes to go home!’
Horemheb’s men sniggered. Horemheb made an exaggerated gesture to the Prince.
‘Go, then. Please, sire. You are free! Do you know which way is home? I suppose it is a long way, so you had better start now.’
Prince Zannanza’s face took on a new depth of despair.
‘Go!’ yelled Horemheb, whacking him hard on the back of the head. The Prince shuffled forward, his ankles and wrists still bound, taking tiny, terrified steps. Horemheb’s men, in silence, opened up a path for him to pass through, towards the gates. Once he fell, but was hoisted to his feet, and pushed on. Finally he lost all strength, and sank slowly to his knees in despair. Horemheb came to stand before him.
‘Are you still here, Prince?’ he said mockingly.
The Prince raised his face. Horemheb slowly produced his sword. It was long and sharp.
‘What are we going to do with you?’ he said, as if to a truculent child.
‘He is innocent. Do not kill him. Release him to his people!’ I shouted.
Horemheb turned to me.
‘None of you will be released. You are all traitors.’
And then he turned back to the Prince.
‘Your time has come. Pray to your Gods now.’
Prince Zannanza uttered a few words of a prayer in his own language, and then the sword sang through the air, separating his head from his body, with a gust of blood, which spattered across the ground and raised a grim, mirthless cheer from the assembled soldiers.
Horemheb picked up Zannanza’s head by the hair.
‘Send this to his father, Suppiluliuma of the Hittites. And tell him there will be no marriage between Egypt and Hatti. Tell him there will never be peace. Tell him I, Horemheb, hold the royal crook and flail of the Two Lands, and Egypt has no need of his weak son!’
The officer bowed briefly, ran to a horse, and swiftly galloped out of the compound, Zannanza’s once-beautiful head dangling from his fist and staring back sightlessly, as if he wanted to tell me something. The hairs on my neck bristled; I suddenly remembered Khety’s screaming head in my opium dream; and an idea came to me.
Horemheb turned to Simut and me. The opium was betraying me again. I felt an intense frustration in my skin. I was crawling with something–it felt like spiders, or ants. I desperately needed to scratch myself, but my hands were bound.
‘And here we have the leftovers. Kill them, and then burn everything. Leave nothing but ash,’ said the general, and turned away. His men approached us, calmly unsheathing their swords for yet more bloodshed.
‘If you kill us, you will never hear what I know,’ I shouted to his back.
Horemheb turned back to me.
‘What has happened to you, Rahotep? You are an opium addict–look at you, shaking like a lunatic. You are a disgrace to Egypt,’ he said.
He turned away again.
‘A platoon of the Egyptian army is smuggling opium into Thebes,’ I said.
An expression of authentic surprise slipped unguarded across his haughty face.
‘What did you say?’
‘The General of the Armies of the Two Lands would wish to know if one of his own platoons had betrayed him,’ I said.
‘You are lying to save your skin,’ he sneered. ‘Besides, I have heard this story before. It was not true then and it is not now.’
‘I am not lying. It is a platoon within the Seth division,’ I said.
‘You dare to accuse the Seth division of such corruption?’ he drawled.
‘Release me, and I will tell you why,’ I said.
He hit me across the face.
‘Do not bargain with me.’
I was beginning to feel awake again. My mind was clearing.
‘The opium is not transported as a liquid, in jars. They have found a way to distil it into bricks, which are transported to the southern end of the valley, where they are collected, and paid for. These opium bricks are then smuggled all the way to Thebes, where a new gang has taken over the whole business from the old gangs.’
‘How do you know this?’ he demanded.
‘It started with an apparently simple murder, in Thebes. Just another execution of five street kids, who were working for the cartels. They had been decapitated, as usual. But I saw it had been done expertly. Then a close colleague, a friend, was also assassinated, by the same gang. By the same killer. And everywhere they left their sign. I have it on a papyrus in my robe. Release me, and I will show you.’
He gazed at me for a long moment. Then he cut the ropes round my hands and I produced the papyrus of the black star, now tattered.
‘This is the sign of the Army of Chaos. But the cartel in Thebes operates with similar ruthless efficiency and skill. They also leave this sign on the bodies of their victims,’ I said.
Horemheb stared at me.
‘Then the Army of Chaos has a foothold in Thebes, which is impossible.’
‘Impossible. But there is another explanation…’
‘Continue,’ he said.
‘Until recently, only relatively small, unreliable quantities of opium could be smuggled across the desert, or by river; just the usual petty black-market operation. But suddenly all that’s changed,’ I said.
‘If you have a point, make it now,’ he interrupted, glancing up at the sun, as if he had somewhere else he needed to be.
‘A rogue platoon within the Seth division is smuggling the opium. They buy it from here. They transport it themselves down to Egypt. They also control the Thebes operation.’
For a long moment he said nothing.
‘Kill him,’ he ordered, and began to walk away again.
‘They are smuggling the opium inside the corpses of dead officers, killed in the wars, and then repatriated for burial…’ I sh
outed.
Horemheb stopped in his tracks. My life was in the balance. He could laugh, and then slice my head from my neck in the next moment. But he did not.
‘What evidence do you have for such a grotesque, insane accusation?’ he said.
‘I am sure of what I say,’ I offered. ‘Evidence could be found. I know where to find it.’
‘Where?’ he demanded.
‘In Bubastis. In Memphis. And in Thebes,’ I replied.
‘All you have is a series of assumptions and suspicions.’
‘I have information. I make interpretations. It is what I do. I am a Seeker of Mysteries. And I know I am right,’ I replied.
Horemheb considered me carefully.
‘I despise the corruption of opium,’ he said. ‘It causes weakness and it undermines order. If there is any sign of this corruption within my army, it must be annihilated. I will see to it.’
Suddenly I felt my position slipping.
‘There is no point destroying the supply chain! You have to attack the heart of the problem. You have to identify the culprits. There is a man, in Thebes. He is the overseer of all of this. They call him “Obsidian”. Let me go, and I will bring you proof. And then you can annihilate the entire cartel. If I fail, kill me,’ I said.
He turned his cold grey eyes on me.
‘You have ten days. If you bring me this evidence, then I will act, and your life will be saved. If you do not, then I will arrest your family, and you will never see them again in this life, for they will be sent to Nubia, to labour in the gold mines for the short time left to them before the heat and the disease kill them.’
He approached closer.
‘There is much at stake in these last days of the Queen Ankhesenamun’s corrupt and dying dynasty, and my triumph will not be denied,’ he said.
‘I need the help of my colleague, Simut,’ I said quickly.
‘He is a prisoner of war, and he will be returned to Thebes for trial as a traitor of the new order,’ he responded brusquely.
‘He is essential to my investigation. He carries royal authority. Without him, it will be impossible for me to examine the army ships, to infiltrate the warehouses, to question witnesses…’
‘I will give you that authority,’ he said.
‘I must not be identified with you in any way during the course of this investigation. It would reveal too much, if I were caught. This has to be clandestine. I must remain invisible, and all connections between us must remain secret,’ I said, trying not to plead.
‘Do not try my patience. I will not release him. He will still stand trial. He is a traitor. As are you.’
‘If I succeed, grant me his life,’ I said.
‘There is a new order coming to Egypt, and I will not be persuaded by arguments of care. There will be no forgiveness. There will only be retribution. Starting with those who undertook this treasonable mission to marry the Queen to a Hittite and bring him to the throne of Egypt.’
And then he was gone.
Part Five
My mouth is given to me that I may speak with it in the presence of the Great God, the Lord of the Underworld.
The Book of the Dead
Spell 22
35
It was early evening. The oppressive heat of the day refused to lift from the port town of Avaris, just inside Egypt’s border.
I had tracked the military convoy on foot along the last part of the Way of Horus as they transported another consignment of the dead. But I was in trouble: Nakht’s death haunted and obsessed me. I had been sent on the mission to protect him, but I had failed him, as I had failed Khety. Now both my dear friends were dead. If Nakht had survived, he could have supported the Queen in her fight against Horemheb’s occupation. But now she would be alone. I kept remembering the strange look on Nakht’s face as he brandished the sword, and then ran into the smoke and flames. I could not stay still; I toyed with my dagger, over and over. My body shivered continually; an uncontrollable shaking tormented my legs; and the skin on my arms and legs was bleeding from the endless scratching. I had been unable to sleep or find any rest for days. I knew what was wrong with me. I craved the golden bliss of the opium dream. I had become the addict I once condemned.
I expected the cargo of coffins to be loaded directly on to a military ship bound for Bubastis; but instead they set off towards the military camp, accompanied by soldiers who peremptorily cleared their way through the crowds. They continued past a long row of warehouses, then turned a corner as if making for the huge tent city of the military camp; this occupied every free space between the port warehouses and grain silos, the massive new barracks under construction, and the ruins of the old citadel which lay behind. Despite the heat, bonfires burned in the shimmering late light, and sweating red-faced cooks toiled at brick ovens, serving the lines of soldiers waiting for food.
But the soldiers and their carts did not enter the camp compound either; instead, they moved towards the burial grounds, and the ruined walls of the citadel ahead of them. I followed behind, keeping within the lengthening shadows. The soldiers and carts continued beyond the burial grounds, too, until they passed through the citadel’s broken gateway, and the old wooden doors creaked closed behind them. Then two soldiers discreetly appeared and stood guard.
Keeping to the shadows like a jackal, I scouted further away along the walls, until I discovered another way into the citadel: a section of wall had collapsed inwards into a broken slope of crumbling stone and mud-brick. I pulled myself up the outer wall of the citadel by my fingers and toes, grasping the crevices between the stone blocks, until I just managed to reach the top. Having hauled myself over, I scrambled down the slope of collapsed blocks, and was inside.
I crouched against the wall, sweating. My guts felt twisted and knotted inside me. The interior was haunted by shadows; everywhere animals had left their scents and their dung. Birds squawked and roosted in the crevices. In the distance I made out the sound of voices calling brief commands; I crept carefully through the darkness, feeling my way over the broken ground, until, around a corner, I found myself looking into a large courtyard. The carts with the coffins stood in the middle, and along one wall empty coffins were stacked upright, as if waiting for re-use. The foot soldiers were unloading the last of the coffins from the carts into a storage magazine. When this was accomplished, they loaded the carts with the empty coffins and, with a salute, drove away, accompanied by the officers on horseback. The great doors creaked closed behind them. The two soldiers who had stood guard at the gateway remained behind. The sun had now passed below the horizon, and the last golden light of the evening occupied the arch of the sky; but it would soon be dark. The two soldiers lit an oil lamp, and found comfortable places to sit and rest, while keeping their attention turned to the gateway doors.
Keeping to the shadows, I slipped silently along the wall of the magazine behind them, and entered. The interior stretched back into darkness. It was cool, but the stink of putrefying meat was overwhelming. The coffins–twenty of them–were stacked inside. Each one had the same hieroglyph drawn on it–Seth, God of chaos, storms, darkness and the desert, with his curved snout, forked tail and body of a dog. In the underworld of the abandoned citadel, before the marked coffins of the dead, I shivered; I could almost feel the dark presence of the God at my back, and his stinking breath on my neck.
The last of the evening light was fading fast; I prised off the crude wooden lid of one of the coffins. The almost-sweet stench of death instantly invaded my hair and skin. I forced myself to look inside: the body was wrapped in a thin layer of white linen bandages, stained and mottled yellow. Turning the body on its side, I slipped my dagger blade between the layers and as quietly as possible cut through the bandages. I carefully lifted them away, but the dead man’s skin peeled from the body, too, where it had become stuck to the linens. The officer’s side had been sliced open from his armpit down to his hip, and then crudely stitched together again. The wound was yellow and bl
ue. I quickly cut through the stitching, and the body cavity opened up. Some crude work had been done to preserve the body for its journey: all the viscera had been removed; the flesh had turned grey and green under the desiccation of the natron salts; and the corpse had been drained of its blood. Willing myself not to gag, I reached inside; to my profound relief, my fingers quickly discovered several wrapped packets. I withdrew one and, with the blade of my dagger, opened the packaging. And there it was, at last: a brick of sticky, brown opium. Evidence; proof of my contention, and the key to everything that lay ahead. I felt stupid tears of relief filling my eyes. With this, I could return to Horemheb, and save myself and my family.
But even with the relief of the discovery, something else possessed me: an overwhelming need to return to the golden bliss of the opium. My hands holding the brick were shaking. Hurriedly, I reached inside and took out three more packets. If each body held four packages, then this consignment of coffins alone would yield eighty packages of opium; a quantity of vast value on the streets of Thebes. How clever they had been to think of this grotesque method of transportation! Once the body cavity was emptied, I could see how the soldier’s spine, ribs and thorax created an efficient storage area. The muscles of the abdomen looked like old leather.
And then it occurred to me to wonder how this officer had died. There seemed to be no bloodstains on the linens around the body. I unwound the bandages from his head. At the back they were hard and cracked with a mass of dried blood, and it was difficult to peel them away without also pulling off hair and skin. The man’s dead face was dark blue and black, like a massive bruise. The muscles of his lips had shrunk and peeled back, revealing his poor teeth. His eyes were no longer white, but faded black orbs in the sockets, seeing nothing. Despite this, I could still tell he was young, perhaps eighteen years old–and definitely not an officer of any kind. This was a conscripted foot soldier, and there would be no reason to return his body to Egypt for an expensive burial. Usually he would have been buried where he fell. The platoon were not only smuggling opium; they were also using the bodies of low-level soldiers as the container. I looked at the ruin of his face, and tried to imagine him alive: a kid without prospects, who would have chosen soldiering, despite its reputation for misery and hopelessness, as the best, perhaps the only, way forward in his life. I managed to lift his head enough to peer at the skull at the back. I could see at once it had been smashed in with a single blow. This was not a battle wound, but a summary execution. And now I knew the secret within the secret. The platoon were murdering their own, to provide transportation for the opium.