by Nick Drake
Then we moved out, our wheels crunching across the gritty and uneven ground, until the hunting chariots had spread across an area of the open ground as wide as an arena. Once we were in position, the Master of the Hunt gave a practised cry to the archers who had been deployed to the east. Far up ahead in the shadowy distance, I could barely make out the unsuspecting animals at the watering hole-just some silhouettes highlighted against the last of the light. Several raised their heads nervously at the strange cry. And then at a signal from the Master of the Hunt, the beaters suddenly beat their wooden clappers together in a terrific cacophony, and in an instant the herds of animals were charging in alarm-and running, as was intended by the hunt’s strategy, towards the chariots. I heard the distant thundering of their hooves coming towards us. Each man urgently took up his reins, and then, led by the King-who took his instruction from the Master of the Hunt-the chariots hurtled forward to a terrific hue and cry. Suddenly we were in battle.
The hunting dogs and the cheetahs raced ahead towards the approaching beasts, the charioteers had their spears hoisted at their shoulders, or, if they had a driver, their bows balanced and pointed…but the terrified herds suddenly sensed the peril that lay ahead, and veered, as one, to the west, so our chariots spread out, the hunt now on under the glory of the moon by whose light it was possible to see everything in detail. I looked across and saw the King intent on the quarry, urging his horses on. He was a surprisingly fine charioteer. I followed, keeping as close to him as possible, and saw Simut doing the same, so that we were a kind of protective corral. I feared a supposedly accidental arrow or hunting spear striking him in the midst of the hunt, as they whistled over our heads, through the air, to land ahead of us.
The panicked herds threw up a decoy of clouds of dust, drastically unpleasant on the eyes and the throat, so we steered slightly to the north, still galloping at high speed, to try for a clearer view. The slower animals were already failing, especially the ostriches; and I watched as the King took aim and accurately struck a big one down. A hunting dog grabbed the fallen bird by the neck, and began to drag it back, growling and struggling with its great weight. The King grinned at me, thrilled. But up ahead the bigger prizes were still running fast. We urged our horses on faster and faster. The chariots rattled over the rough ground; I glanced down at the axles and prayed mine would hold strong. My teeth were rattling inside my head, and my bones shaking inside my flesh. My ears filled with a constant humming. I wanted to shout with excitement like a child.
The King managed to place a new arrow in his bow, and raised it up to aim. I decided it was time I did something, and followed suit. Up ahead I saw a swiftly bounding antelope, and chose it as my target. I pulled on the reins, and swerved to the right, and forced the horse faster, until suddenly I had him in my sight; in a sudden gap between the flanks of the other animals I let the arrow fly from the bow. Nothing happened for a moment, but then I saw him miss a stride, tangle himself in his legs, and then crash to the ground. The herd raced on and around the fallen animal, and many of the chariots continued their chase.
Now everything was suddenly very quiet. The arrow had pierced the animal’s side, and thick dark blood pulsed and flowed down the steaming flank. The eyes were open wide, but unseeing. Flies, those eternal companions of death, were already buzzing in their disgusting excitement around the wound. I felt both pride and pity. A moment ago this corpse of meat and bones was a living thing of magnificent grace and energy. I am used to the bodies of the dead, to mangled, eviscerated, carved-open corpses, and the sweet rotting stench of decaying human flesh. But this animal, killed in the glory of the hunt, seemed another order of passing. In gratitude and respect, I made the prayer of offering to honour the spirit of the animal.
The King approached on his chariot, accompanied by Simut on his. They drew up, and we waited there in the moonlight, the hot breath of our horses like trumpet blasts in the cold desert night air. The King congratulated me. Simut observed the animal and praised its quality. The Master of the Hunt arrived, added his respectful praise, and directed his assistants to take up the animal, along with those others killed in the hunt. We would not lack for meat.
Back at the camp, torches had been lit, flaring in a circle around the great fire at the centre. The butcher was at his work station at the edge of the camp, his hatchet and knives chopping with assurance down through the soft, vulnerable bellies of the strung-up carcasses. He nonchalantly slung hacked-off hooves on one pile, and gathered the guts in great slippery bundles in his arms, before throwing the best parts into a cauldron. Several archers stood guard on the margin of the camp’s penumbra to protect him and the meat from the hyenas and the desert foxes.
The King’s kill, the ostrich, had been presented to him. He ran his fingers through the magnificent white and brown feathers.
‘I have many fans,’ he said, casually. ‘And therefore I will have these made into one especially for you, Rahotep, as a gift to remember this fine hunt.’
I bowed.
‘I would be honoured.’
We drank water, thirstily, and then wine was poured from a tall jar into our gold beakers. We were served the freshly cooked meat of the kill on dishes of exquisitely crafted metal, placed on the rush mats. I took my pick from the array of bronze knives. The King ate carefully, assessing everything that was placed before him on the plates of gold, and then cautiously trying a little. Despite the physical demands of the hunt, he did not eat with a great appetite. Whereas I was starving, and relished every mouthful of the wonderfully flavoured meat, so much more vivid and tender than anything one could buy from the butchers of the city.
‘You do not like antelope?’ I asked.
‘It feels strange to have seen the living animal running for its life, and now to have this piece of dead…flesh in my hand.’
I almost laughed at his childish sincerity.
‘Everything eats everything else. More or less…’
‘I know. Dog eats dog. Such is the world of man. And yet I find the thought of it somehow-barbaric.’
‘When my children were younger, and we killed a duck or a rabbit at home, they pleaded pitifully for the animal’s life, and then, when the feathers, or the fur and skin had been peeled off like a set of robes, and they had shed their tears, they begged to be shown the heart and to keep the lucky paw. And then they ate the stew with no ill-effects whatsoever, and asked for more.’
‘Children are not sentimental. Or perhaps they are taught to become so because we cannot bear their honesty. Or their cruelty.’
‘Were you taught to be sentimental?’
‘I was raised in a palace, not a home. My mother was taken away from me, my father was remote as a statue. My companions were a wet nurse and a monkey. Is it surprising I gave my love to animals? At least I knew they loved me, and I could trust their love.’
And he gently fed some of the meat to his monkey, then delicately washed his fingers in the bowl.
But we were interrupted, at that moment, by a shadow that appeared on the linen walls at the entrance to the tent. I let my hand fall to grasp the hilt of the dagger hidden in my robe. The firelight outside made the shadow seem larger than life as it approached. The King called out permission to enter. It was his personal assistant. He carried a tray of freshly baked honey cakes, and a dish of the honeycomb. The King’s eyes lit up with delight. The assistant bowed and placed the tray before us. The cook must have decided to make a special treat for the King’s hunting-night supper.
His delicate fingers flickered swiftly towards the cakes; but suddenly, instinctively, I grasped his wrist.
‘How dare you touch me!’ he cried out.
‘Forgive me, lord. But I cannot be sure…’
‘Of what?’ he shouted petulantly, rising to his feet.
‘That this honey is safe. We do not know its origins. I would rather not take the risk…’
Then his little monkey, with its crafty, shiny eyes, darted down from his shoulder, p
lucked a piece of honeycomb from the dish, and scampered off into a corner.
‘Now do you see what has happened?’ he cried, annoyed.
He approached the monkey, making little loving noises, but it mistrusted him, and darted along the wall of the tent to the far corner, where it began to nibble at its treasure, blinking with anxiety. Again the King followed him, and I approached from the other angle, in a pincer movement. But the creature was too swift for us, and it darted away again between my legs, snapping at my hand with its sharp little teeth, and ran off again to the far side of the tent, where it sat on its haunches, munching and chattering, until the honeycomb was consumed. The King approached it again, and now that it had nothing to lose, it willingly trotted back towards him, perhaps even in hope of further treats. But suddenly, strangely, it seemed to trip over itself, as if it had forgotten how to walk; and then it curled up into a tight ball, twisting and turning into itself, writhing and uttering little cries of agony. The King’s shout of distress quickly brought Simut and the guards. There was nothing anyone could do. Mercifully quickly, the monkey was dead. I was only glad it was not the King who had died in the grip of poison.
He carefully picked up the dead creature, and gently held it close to himself. He turned and looked at us all.
‘What are you all staring at!’ he shouted.
No one dared speak. For a moment, I thought he was going to throw the little corpse at me. But instead he turned away and carried it into the privacy of his bedchamber.
Outside the moon hung low on the black horizon. It was very cold. The King’s guards stamped their feet, and moved back and forth as they resumed their sentry duty, trying to keep warm and awake as they stood beside the brazier that burned like a small sun in its black cage. Red sparks drifted briefly up into the night, and vanished. For more privacy, Simut and I walked beyond the edge of the encampment. Away from the firelight, the vast silvered desert lands spread out for ever; they were more beautiful, under the great blackness of the night sky, than under the harsh light and heat of day. I looked up, and it seemed the heavens burned brighter than ever tonight with the millions of stars that glittered eternally in the perfect air. But here on earth, we were in trouble again.
‘It seems he is not safe anywhere,’ he said at length. ‘It seems nothing we do can assure him of security.’
We had questioned the assistant, and the cook, who hastily explained that Tutankhamun had personally requested the honey be made into cakes. Both were terrified of their involvement in what had happened-and the implication that they were themselves complicit.
‘The King has a sweet tooth. He always requires something sweet at the end of a meal,’ said the cook, his big, sweaty hands twisted together.
‘I did not approve, but the King’s wishes must be obeyed in all things,’ added the assistant superciliously, nervously regarding the cook.
I had the evidence of my own eyes to confirm their story, and no doubt whoever had sent the honey knew too of the King’s pleasure in sweetness.
‘If we can catch those honey gatherers, we can question them directly. They will quickly confess who instructed them to deliver the honey,’ I said. But Simut shook his head.
‘I have already asked the Master of the Hunt. He has persuaded me it will be a fruitless task to track them, especially in the dark. They are experts in the desert, and he assures me if they do not wish to be found they will have disappeared without trace by dawn.’
We pondered the possibilities that remained open to us.
‘The King is alive still, and that is the most important thing.’
‘Certainly. But whose reach is so extensive that even out here’-he gestured at the huge vacancy of the countless stars and the night desert-‘they can attempt to poison him?’
‘I believe there are only two people,’ I replied.
He looked at me and nodded. We understood each other well.
‘And I know which I would pick as the likelier candidate,’ he said quietly.
‘Horemheb?’
He nodded. ‘We are in his territory, and it would not have been difficult for him to track our progress. And it would suit him for the King to die far from his own court, and the chaos that would follow would be the perfect battleground for him to contend with Ay for power.’
‘All of that is true, although it might be said he would be the first suspect one would think of, and perhaps he would not be so-obvious.’
Simut grunted.
‘Whereas Ay is clever enough to engineer something from this distance, which would also cast a shadow of suspicion over Horemheb,’ I continued.
‘But in either case, they would both benefit from the King’s death.’
‘And in either case, they are men of immense influence and power. Ay cannot control the army, and yet he needs it. Horemheb cannot control the offices, and yet he needs them. And both of them wish to control the royal domain. I am beginning to think the King merely stands between them as an obstacle in their own great battle,’ I said.
He nodded.
‘What do you think we should do?’ he asked.
‘I think we should remain here. The priority is to kill a lion. That in itself will give the King renewed comfort, and confidence.’
‘I agree. To return in any other way would be a sign of failure. He has set the stakes very high. We must not fail.’
We walked back to the brazier, to warm ourselves.
‘I will watch through the night, with the guards,’ offered Simut.
‘And I will see if the King needs anything, and I’ll sleep in his tent, if he requires it.’
And so we parted.
30
Tutankhamun was sitting on his travelling throne, staring at nothing, holding the dead monkey like a baby in his lap. I bowed my head and waited for him to speak.
‘You saved my life,’ he said, eventually, flatly.
I remained silent.
‘You will be rewarded,’ he continued. ‘Look up.’
I did so, and I saw to my relief that something important had changed in him.
‘I confess that everything that has happened in these last weeks has brought great fear into my heart. Sometimes I was afraid to be alive. And fear itself became my master. But the King of the Two Lands must not be afraid. It is time to conquer my fear, to give it no authority. Otherwise what will I be, but the prey of shadows?’
‘Fear is human, lord,’ I said, carefully, ‘but it is wise to learn its deceits and its powers, in order to control and defeat them.’
‘You are right. And in doing so, I learn the deceits of those who would use fear against me; those who would use the images of death to terrify me. But if I give death no sway, then fear has no sway. Is that not true, Rahotep?’
‘It is true, lord. But it is common to all to fear death. It is a reasonable fear.’
‘And yet I cannot afford to live in fear of it any more.’
He looked down at the dead monkey, and gently stroked its fur.
‘Death is only a dream, from which we awake in a more glorious place.’
I could not agree with him, and therefore I remained silent.
‘I know you well enough now, Rahotep, to see when you are not speaking your mind.’
‘Death is a subject I resist discussing.’
‘And yet your life’s work is the business of death.’
‘Perhaps, lord. But I have no love for it.’
‘I would imagine, having seen so much of it, you must find it somehow disappointing,’ he commented, accurately.
‘It is at once disappointing and remarkable. I look at corpses, which were a day before living, talking and laughing, committing their petty crimes and enjoying their love-affairs, and now what is left behind but an inert sack of blood and viscera? What has happened? My mind still blanks at the thought of the experience of being dead.’
‘We are alike, we both think too much,’ he said, and smiled.
‘It is worst in the small
hours. I realize death is a day closer. I fear the death of those I love. I fear my own death. I think about the good I have not done, and the love I failed to cherish, and the time I have wasted. And when I have done with all that useless remorse, I think about death’s emptiness. Not to be here. Not to be anywhere at all…’
He said nothing for a moment. I wondered if I had gone too far. But then he clapped his hands and laughed.
‘What wonderful company you are, Rahotep! Such optimism, such cheerfulness…’
‘You are right, lord. I brood. My daughters tell me to cheer up.’
‘They are right to do so. But I am concerned. I hear no word of faith in the Gods in what you say.’
I paused before replying, for suddenly the ground of our conversation felt thin as papyrus.
‘I struggle with my faith. And I struggle to believe. Perhaps that is my personal way of being afraid. Faith tells us that in spirit we never die. But I find, try as I might, I cannot yet believe that story.’
‘Life itself is holy, Rahotep. The rest is mystery.’
‘Indeed, lord. And sometimes, as I lie there thinking my futile thoughts, the light steals up on me; dawn comes, and the children awake, and outside the street fills up with people and activity, as it does in every street, all through the city, as in every city in the land. And I remember there is work to be done. And I get up.’
He said nothing for a moment.
‘You are right. Duty is everything. And there is great work to be accomplished. Everything that has happened recently has only encouraged me in my absolute determination to fulfil my kingship, in the line of my great ancestors. When we return to Thebes, I will establish a new order. The rule of darkness will be abolished. It is time to bring light and hope to the Two Lands, in the glorious names of the Kings of my dynasty.’