Tutankhamun: The Book of Shadows rr-2

by Nick Drake

  We broke camp that night and started our sorrowful journey under the stars, back across the desert towards the distant ship, and the Great River that would carry us all home to the city. I tried not to let myself think what the consequences would be for all of us, and for the future of the Two Lands, if he died.

  33

  I kept vigil at the bedside of Tutankhamun as he twisted and turned in feverish agony all through the nights of the river journey back to Thebes. His heart seemed to race in his chest, trapped and frail, like a tiny bird. Pentu treated him with purgatives, to prevent the beginning of putrefaction in the bowels spreading morbidly to the heart. And he contended with the leg wound, tying and retying the wooden splints, changing the linen padding regularly, so that the splintered bones might have some chance of binding together.

  He had struggled to keep the wound clean, at first binding it with fresh meat, and then poultices of honey, fat and oil. But each time he changed the bandaging, and applied more cedar resin, I could see the lips were hesitating from binding, and now a deep black shadow was creeping through the flesh, under the skin, in every direction. The smell of rotting flesh was vile. Pentu tried everything: a decoction of willow bark, barley flour, the ash of a plant whose name he would not reveal, mixed with onion and vinegar, and a white ointment made from minerals found in the desert mines of the oasis towns. Nothing worked.

  On the second morning of the journey, with Pentu’s permission, I spoke to the King. The fresh daylight entering his chamber seemed to calm and cheer him after a long, painful night. He had been washed, and dressed in fresh linens. But already he was drenched in sweat, and his eyes were dull.

  ‘Life, prosperity and health,’ I said, quietly, aware of the grim irony of the formula.

  ‘No degree of prosperity, no gold nor treasure, can bring back life and health,’ he whispered.

  ‘The physician is confident of a full recovery,’ I said, trying to maintain my encouraging expression.

  He gazed at me like a wounded animal. He knew better.

  ‘Last night I had a strange dream,’ he panted. I waited for him to gain enough strength to continue. ‘I was Horus, son of Osiris. I was the falcon, hovering high in the sky, approaching the Gods.’

  I wiped the sweat that beaded his hot brow.

  ‘I flew among the Gods.’ And he searched my eyes, earnestly.

  ‘And what happened then?’ I asked.

  ‘Something bad. I fell slowly to earth, down and down…Then I opened my eyes. I was looking up at all the stars in the darkness. But I knew I would never reach them. And slowly-they started to go out-one by one, faster and faster.’

  He gripped my hand.

  ‘And suddenly I was very afraid. All the stars died. Everything was dark. And then I woke up…and now I fear to sleep again…’

  He shivered. His eyes glistened, sincere and wide.

  ‘It was a dream born of your pain. Do not take it to heart.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right. Perhaps there is no Otherworld. Perhaps there is nothing.’

  He looked terrified again.

  ‘I was wrong. The Otherworld is real. Do not doubt it.’

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. I knew he did not believe me.

  ‘Please, take me home. I want to go home.’

  ‘The ship is making good time, and the north winds are blowing well in our favour. You will soon be there.’

  He nodded, miserably. I held his hot, damp hand for a while longer, until he turned his face away to the wall.

  Pentu and I went out on to the deck. The world of green fields and labourers passed by as if nothing important was happening.

  ‘What do you think are his chances?’ I asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘It is unusual to survive such a catastrophic fracture. The wound is badly infected, and he is weakening. I am very worried.’

  ‘He seems to be in much pain.’

  ‘I try to administer whatever I have to diminish it.’

  ‘The opium poppy?’

  ‘Certainly I will prescribe that, if the pain becomes still worse. But I hesitate to do so until it is necessary…’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘It is the most powerful drug we possess. But its very potency makes it dangerous. His heart is weak, and I do not wish to weaken it further.’

  We both stared out at the landscape for a little while, without talking.

  ‘May I ask you a question?’ I said, eventually.

  He nodded, cautiously.

  ‘I have heard there are secret books, the Books of Thoth?’

  ‘You have mentioned them before.’

  ‘And I believe they include medical knowledge?’

  ‘And if they did?’ he replied.

  ‘I am curious to know whether they tell of secret substances, which might give visions…’

  Pentu regarded me very carefully.

  ‘If such substances existed they would only be revealed to men whose exceptional wisdom and status conferred on them the right to such knowledge. Why, in any case, do you want to know?’

  ‘Because I am curious.’

  ‘That is not the kind of approach that encourages one to reveal closely guarded secrets,’ he replied.

  ‘Nevertheless. Anything you could tell me would be very useful.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘It is said there exists a magical fungus. It is only found in the boreal regions. It is supposed to grant visions of the Gods…But the truth is, we know nothing certain of this fungus, and no one in the Two Lands has ever seen it, let alone experimented with it to prove or disprove its powers. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I have a hunch,’ I replied.

  He was not amused.

  ‘Perhaps you need more than a hunch, Rahotep. Perhaps it is time you had a vision of your own.’

  Through that last night of the journey, the King’s fever worsened; he was in appalling pain. The black shadow of infection continued to consume the flesh of his leg. His thin face took on a clammy, sallow complexion, and his eyes, whenever they flickered open, were the dull colour of ivory. His mouth was parched, his lips were cracked, and his tongue was yellow and white. His heart now seemed to have slowed, and he barely had the power to open his mouth to take water. Pentu finally treated him with the juice of the opium poppy. It calmed him marvellously, and suddenly I understood its power and attraction.

  Once, in the small hours, he opened his eyes. I broke with protocol and took his hand in mine. He could barely even speak in a whisper, struggling to enunciate each word through the softness of the opium trance. He looked at the protective Eye of Ra ring he had given me. And then with enormous effort, summoning his last reserves of strength, he spoke.

  ‘If my destiny is to die, and pass to the Otherworld, then I ask this of you: accompany my body as far as you can. See me to my tomb.’

  His almond-shaped eyes gazed earnestly at me from his gaunt face. I recognized the stark lineaments and the strange intensity of approaching death.

  ‘You have my word,’ I said.

  ‘The Gods await me. My mother is there. I can see her. She calls to me…’

  And he looked up into thin air, seeing someone I could not.

  His hand was small, and light, and hot. I held it between my own as carefully as I could. I looked at the Eye of Ra ring he had given me. It had failed him, and so had I. I felt the delicate slowness of his fading pulse, and attended carefully to it, until just before dawn when he let out a long, last gentle sigh, of neither disappointment nor satisfaction, and the bird of his spirit went out of Tutankhamun, Living Image of Amun, and flew into the Otherworld for ever; and then his hand slipped gently from mine.

  Part Three

  Your face has been opened in the House of Darkness.

  The Book of the Dead, Spell 169

  34

  The Beloved of Amun sailed silently into the Malkata harbour just after sunset on the next day. The darkening sky was suitably ominous. No one sp
oke. The whole world seemed silenced; only the sombre, steady splash and draw of the oarsmen made any sound at all. The water bore an odd, flat, silky grey sheen, as before a sandstorm. On the long stone quay of the palace only a few figures waited. I noticed only one lamp was lit along the dock. We had sent a messenger ahead with the news, the worst news. We should have been returning with the King in glory. Instead we were bringing him home to his tomb.

  I stood beside the King’s body. It seemed so small and frail. It was now wrapped in clean white linen. Only his face was displayed, calm and still and vacant. His spirit had left. All that remained was this stiff shell. There is nothing emptier in this world than a dead body.

  Simut went ashore, while I waited with the King for the guards to arrive. I heard their feet upon the gangplank, and then in the silence that followed Ay entered the royal cabin. He stooped over the body of Tutankhamun, contemplating the reality of the catastrophe. Then with effort he bent lower to the King’s left ear, the ear through which the breath of death enters. And I heard him whisper: ‘You were a useless child in life. Your death must be the making of you.’

  And then he straightened up stiffly.

  The King lay unmoved by this upon his golden deathbed. Ay scrutinized me briefly, his eyes like little stones, his cruel face untouched by feeling. Then, without a word, he gestured to the guards to bring the King’s body on its bier, and they carried him out.

  Simut and I followed the bier through the endless corridors and chambers of the Malkata Palace, which were absolutely deserted. I suddenly felt we were thieves returning a stolen object to its tomb. I reflected that at least we were not yet in fetters. But that might only be a matter of time. No matter what the truth of this accident, we would be blamed for the King’s death. He was our responsibility, and we had failed. Suddenly I wanted badly to go home. I wanted to walk away from this chamber, and these indifferent corridors of power, and cross the black waters of the Great River, and go quietly up my street to my house, and close the door behind me, and curl up beside Tanefert, and sleep, and then, when I had slept for many hours, wake up to the simple sun, and for this all to be nothing but a dream. Reality was now my torment.

  We were escorted to the King’s chamber, and left to wait outside. Time passed slowly, obscurely. Muffled voices, sometimes raised, carried through the thick wooden doors. Simut and I glanced at each other, but he gave nothing away of what he was thinking or feeling. Then the doors suddenly opened, and we were admitted.

  Tutankhamun, Lord of the Two Lands, was laid out upon his couch, his thin hands folded across his thin chest. He had not yet been properly attired for death. He was surrounded by the toys and game boxes of his lost childhood. They seemed now to be his grave goods, the objects he would truly treasure in the Otherworld, rather than the golden paraphernalia of royalty. Ankhesenamun gazed at the dead face of her husband. When she looked up at me, her face was hollow with sorrow and defeat. How could she forgive me? I had failed her as much as I had failed the King. She was alone now, in this palace of shadows. She had become the last living member of her dynasty. No one is more vulnerable than a widowed queen without an heir.

  Ay rapped his walking stick suddenly upon the floor stones.

  ‘We must not indulge our grief. There is no time for mourning. There is too much to be done. It must appear to the world that this event has not occurred. No one may speak of what they have seen. The word death will not be spoken. Fresh food and clean linens will continue to be delivered to the antechamber. His nurse will continue to attend him. But his body will be purified and made beautiful here, in secret, and since his own tomb is far from ready, he will be buried in my tomb in the royal necropolis. It is suitable, and it will not take long to adapt. The gold coffins are already being prepared. His burial treasures and his funerary equipment will be assembled and chosen by me. All of this will be done swiftly, and above all secretly. When the burial has been accomplished, in secret, then, and only then, we will announce his death.’

  Ankhesenamun, stirred from her grief by this astonishing proposal, broke the silence that followed.

  ‘That is absolutely unacceptable. The obsequies and funeral must be conducted with full honour and dignity. Why must we pretend he is not dead?’

  Ay approached her furiously.

  ‘How can you be so naive? Do you not understand that the stability of the Two Lands is at stake? The death of a king is the most vulnerable and potentially disastrous time in the life of a dynasty. There is no heir. And that is because your womb has failed to produce anything other than stillborn, deformed infants,’ he sneered.

  I glanced at Ankhesenamun.

  ‘So the Gods have willed,’ she replied, staring at him in cold anger.

  ‘We must take control of this situation before chaos overwhelms us all. Our enemies will attempt to destroy us now. I am God’s Father, Doer of Right, and what I decree will be. We must maintain the order of maat by all means necessary. The Medjay divisions are even now being given instructions to prevent public and private association, and to use all means to quell any signs of public unrest on the streets. They will be stationed throughout the city, and along the temple walls.’

  It sounded like preparations for a state of emergency. What dissent could be so alarming? Who did he mean as the enemy? Only Horemheb. He was Ay’s greatest threat at this moment; Horemheb, General of the Two Lands, could easily mount a campaign for power now. He was young, he commanded the majority of the divisions of the army, and he was intelligently ruthless. Ay was old. I looked at him, with his painful bones and teeth, and his rage for order; his earthly power that had seemed so absolute for so long, suddenly seemed vulnerable, and weak. But it would not do to underestimate him.

  Ankhesenamun saw all of this.

  ‘There is another way. All of this would be resolved by a strong and immediate succession. I am the last of my great line, and in the name of my father and grandfather, I claim the crowns,’ she countered, proudly.

  He glared at her with a contempt that would wither a stone.

  ‘You are nothing but a weak girl. Do not indulge in fantasies. You have tried to oppose me once, and failed. It is necessary that I will crown myself King shortly, for there is no one else fit to govern.’

  She was provoked now.

  ‘No king may be proclaimed before the Days of Purification are completed. It would be sacrilege.’

  ‘Do not contest my will. It shall be so. It is necessary, and necessity is the most compelling of all reasons,’ he shouted, his cane quivering in his hand.

  ‘And what of me?’ she said, intently, calmly composed against his rage.

  ‘If you are lucky, I may marry you myself. But it depends how useful such an arrangement would be. I am by no means convinced of its value.’

  She shook her head in derision.

  ‘And how is it for you to be convinced of anything? I am Queen.’

  ‘In name only! You have no power. Your husband is dead. You are quite alone. Think carefully before you speak again.’

  ‘I will not tolerate you addressing me in this way. I will make a public proclamation.’

  ‘And I will forbid that and prevent it by any means necessary.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘Rahotep is assigned as my personal guard. Remember that.’

  He merely laughed.

  ‘Rahotep? The man who guarded the King, and brought him home dead? His record speaks for itself.’

  ‘The King’s death was not his fault. He is loyal. That is everything,’ she replied.

  ‘A dog is loyal. That does not make him valuable. Simut will provide a guard. For now, you may mourn in private. And I will consider your future. As for Rahotep, he was given a clear responsibility, and yet the very worst has happened. I will decide his fate,’ he said casually.

  I had known these words were coming. I thought of my wife and my children.

  ‘What about the lion?’ asked Simut. ‘The King cannot be seen to ha
ve returned without the trophy.’

  ‘Kill the tame one, and display it,’ replied Ay dismissively. ‘No one will know the difference.’

  And with those words he departed, insisting she accompany him. Simut and I remained standing before the slender body of the King, the young man whose life had been entrusted to us. He was the very image of our defeat. Something was finished here, in this bundle of skin and bone. And something else had begun: the war for power.

  ‘I doubt even Ay can contain this,’ said Simut. ‘People read signs, and the King’s absence from public life will be noted very quickly. Coming immediately after the fanfare about the royal hunt, and the expectation of his glorious return, the speculation will be uncontrollable.’

  ‘And that is why Ay needs to bury Tutankhamun as soon as possible, and announce himself King,’ I replied. ‘And he needs to keep Horemheb at a distance for as long as possible.’

  ‘But the general is as watchful as a jackal. I am sure he will scent this death and seize his opportunity to confront Ay,’ said Simut. ‘It is not an optimistic prospect.’

  We both stood staring down at the King’s delicate, dead face. It represented so much more as well: a possible catastrophe for the whole of the Two Lands if this power struggle were not swiftly resolved.

  ‘What worries me most is that Ankhesenamun is so vulnerable to both of them,’ I said.

  ‘That is a cause for deep concern,’ he conceded.

  ‘It would be a disaster if Horemheb returned to Thebes just now.’

  ‘And it would be a disaster if he entered this palace,’ said Simut. ‘But how can that be prevented while his wife resides here? Perhaps she should be sent away.’

  This was news to me.

  ‘Mutnodjmet? She lives within the palace?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But her name has never been spoken in all this time,’ I said.

  He turned his head closely to mine.