by Nick Drake
‘No one speaks publicly of her. Privately, they say she is a lunatic. She lives in a suite of chambers, from which she never emerges. They say she has only two dwarfs for company. Whether this is by her own will, or whether that of her husband has been imposed upon her, I do not know.’
‘You mean she is imprisoned here?’
‘Call it what you will. But she has no liberty. She is the family secret.’
My mind raced ahead, like a dog on the scent of its hidden quarry, suddenly close.
‘I must attend to other matters, but let us talk more, elsewhere. What will you do now?’ he asked.
‘I have no future, apparently,’ I said, with a lightness I did not feel.
‘But you are not yet in fetters.’
‘I suspect if I try to leave this palace, a strange accident will befall me.’
‘Then do not leave. You have a role here. Protect the Queen. I can offer you in turn the protection of my guards, and whatever degree of safety the authority of my name confers.’
I nodded, grateful.
‘But first there is something I must do. I must speak to Mutnodjmet. Do you know where her chambers lie?’
He shook his head.
‘It is kept a secret, even from me. But you know someone who probably could take you there.’
‘Khay?’
He nodded.
‘Ask him. And remember: what happened was not your fault. It was not my fault, either.’
‘Do you think the world will believe that?’ I replied.
He shook his head.
‘But it is the truth, and that is still something, even in this age of deceit,’ he replied, and then he turned away and left me alone in the King’s chamber, with the dead boy.
35
Why had no one ever mentioned Mutnodjmet? Not even Ankhesenamun, her own niece. And yet, all the time Nefertiti’s sister, the wife of Horemheb, the general of the Two Lands, had been incarcerated here within the Malkata Palace. Perhaps she was simply a poor madwoman, the living shame of her family, and so they kept her locked away from public sight. But she was nevertheless a connection between the royal dynasty and Horemheb. He had married into power, and now, it seemed, he acquiesced in his wife’s imprisonment.
I was considering these matters when the door of the chamber slowly, silently opened. I waited to see who would enter. A figure in dark robes moved silently across the stone floor towards the bed.
‘Stop there!’
The figure froze.
‘Turn around,’ I said.
The figure twisted slowly towards me. It was Maia, the wet nurse. Her contempt for me was undisguised. Grief disfigured her face. Then she carefully and precisely spat at me. She had nothing more to lose. I wiped the spittle from my face. She moved towards the dead body. She bent tenderly over her King, kissing his cold brow reverently.
‘He was my child. I fed him, and cared for him from the day he was born. He trusted you. And behold what you have brought back. I curse you. I curse your family. May you all be blighted as you have blighted me.’ Her face was livid with rage now.
Without waiting for, or apparently desiring, a reply, she began to wash the body with natron-salted water. I sat down upon a stool and watched. She worked with infinite care and love, knowing this would be the last time she could ever touch him. She washed his limp arms, and his dangling hands, taking each finger in turn, and wiping them like a helpless child’s. She passed her cloth gently over the unmoving, thin chest, wiping along the length of each rib, and over the narrow shoulders, and under the shallow armpits. Then she drew her cloth down the long length of the sound leg, and then gently around the festering wound of the broken one, as if he were still sensible of his pain. Finally she knelt at his feet. I listened to the quiet splash of the cloth in the bowl of scented water, the little cascade as she wrung it out, the steady repeated movement of the cloth between his toes, around his delicate ankles, and along the length of his dead feet, which she kissed as she finished her work.
Tears dripped from her chin as she wept silently. Then she folded his arms, in time-honoured fashion, ready for the gold crook and flail, the royal symbols of Upper and Lower Egypt, and of Osiris, the first King, Lord of the Otherworld, which others would place in his hands in due course. Finally from one of the clothing chests, she took a fine gold collar and a jewelled gold pectoral, with a scarab inlaid at its heart, pushing a fine red carnelian sun disc above it into the light of the new day, and placed it on his chest.
‘Now he is ready for the Controller of the Mysteries,’ she whispered.
And then she settled herself on a stool at the side of the room, as far away from me as possible, and began murmuring her prayers.
‘Maia,’ I said.
She ignored me. I tried again.
‘Where are the quarters of Mutnodjmet?’ I asked.
She opened her eyes.
‘Oh, now that it is too late, he asks the right question.’
‘Tell me why that is the right question?’
‘Why should I tell you anything? It is too late for me. It is too late for you. You should have listened to me before. I will speak no more. I will be silent for ever.’
I was about to insist when the door opened and the Controller of the Mysteries entered the chamber, wearing the jackal-headed mask of Anubis, the God of the Dead, and accompanied by his assistants. Usually the body would have been removed to an embalming enclosure, away from the living quarters, where it would be washed, eviscerated, dried out with salt, anointed and bandaged. But I supposed because Ay had insisted upon secrecy, he had ordered that the body must remain in the chamber. A lector priest began to recite the first instructions and magical utterances, while the lesser officials prepared the chamber with the necessary equipment-tools, hooks, obsidian blades, resins, water, salt, palm wine, spices, and the many bandages that would be used during the long process. They set the sloping wooden embalming board upon four wooden blocks, and then respectfully lifted the King’s body and laid it out there. Later in the long ritual, the embalmed body would be dressed in a shroud, and then bandaged; and then, for this King, priceless jewels, rings, bracelets, collars and magical amulets, many containing spells of special protection, would be secreted within the folds and layers of the fine linens, with utterances and spells to accompany each action-for every action had to adhere precisely to the traditions if it were to have value in the afterlife. Finally, the death mask would be fitted, so that this last face of gold could identify the dead man, and allow his ka and ba spirits to reunite with his body in the tomb.
The Controller of the Mysteries stood at the foot of the embalming table, looking down at the King’s body. Everything was ready for the work of purification to begin. Then he turned his gaze on me. I could see the white of his hidden eyes through the elegant holes in the black of his mask. In the close silence, all his assistants turned to stare at me. It was time to leave.
36
I knocked on the door to Khay’s office. After a moment his assistant answered. He glanced anxiously at me.
‘My master is occupied,’ he said urgently, trying to get between me and the door to the inner chamber.
‘I am sure he can spare me a few moments of his precious time.’
I walked through the antechamber, and into Khay’s office. His bony face was flushed. He was taken aback, and was not sober enough to cover it well.
‘The great Seeker of Mysteries makes his grand entrance…’
I saw he had a full cup of wine upon his low table, and there was a small amphora on its stand beside it.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour. I thought you might be at home, with your family. Do you have a home and a family?’
He squinted at me.
‘What do you want, Rahotep? I’m busy…’
‘So I see.’
‘At least some of us are committed to a certain level of competence in our work.’
I ignored him.
‘I’
ve discovered a very curious thing.’
‘Good to hear our Seeker of Mysteries has discovered something…’
His mouth seemed to be working slightly in advance of his brain.
‘Mutnodjmet resides within the walls of this palace.’
His chin was now raised, his eyes suddenly wary.
‘What bearing could that have upon your business here?’
‘She is Horemheb’s wife, and aunt to Ankhesenamun.’
He clapped his hands together, his face a caricature.
‘Such meticulous research into the family tree!’
But he was nervous, behind the irony.
‘So can you confirm she is being held within the palace?’
‘As I said, the subject has no bearing on the matter at hand.’
I moved closer. Tiny broken veins were pulsing delicately in the puffy, crinkled skin around his eyes. He was subsiding fast into middle age. The stress of his elevated position would not help, and he would not be the first to take to wine as a consolation.
‘I have a different opinion of the matter, and so please answer the question.’
‘I am not here to be interrogated by you.’
His feathers were up now.
‘As you know, I have the authority of the King and Queen to pursue my inquiries wherever they may take me, and I cannot comprehend why there should be such an issue about answering a very simple question,’ I replied.
He blinked at me, wavering slightly. Eventually he answered:
‘She is not being held, as you put it. She lives out her life in her own wing of accommodation within the comforts and security of the royal quarters.’
‘That is not what I have heard.’
‘Well, people do talk such rubbish.’
‘If it is all so nice and easy, why has no one told me about this?’
‘Ha! You are desperate for some direction in your futile investigation of the mystery. But it has now become quite pointless, and I would advise you against pursuing this line of inquiry.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it will prove a dead end.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘She is a poor lunatic who has not left her quarters for many years. What can she possibly have to do with all of this…?’
He turned away. His hands quivered slightly as he raised the wine cup and drank a deep draught.
‘Take me to see her. Now.’
He put down his cup too quickly, and some of the wine splashed on his hand. He looked incensed by this, and instead of wiping it away, he licked it off.
‘You have no grounds for such an interview.’
‘Should I trouble Ay or the Queen with this request?’
He wavered.
‘When there is so much else of really vital importance going on, it really is too ridiculous, but I suppose if you insist…’
‘Let us go, then.’
‘It is late. The Princess will have retired. Tomorrow.’
‘No. Now. Who knows what hours lunatics keep?’
We set off down the corridors. I hoped to keep a bird’s view of our progress, like a plan inscribed on the papyrus of my memory, because I wanted to be able to locate her quarters exactly, and find them again if I needed to. But it was not a simple matter, for corridors dwindled to passageways, and became more crooked and narrow. Beautiful wall paintings of papyrus marshes, and images of rivers full of perfect fish beneath our feet, gave way to mundane plainly painted plaster walls and dried-mud floors. The finely wrought oil lamps that lined the main passageways became more ordinary, such as one might find in any reasonably comfortable home.
Finally we came to a simple doorway. No insignia decorated the lintel. No guards stood before it. It could have been the doorway to a storeroom. The bolts were tied together, and sealed. Khay was perspiring; tiny beads of sweat gathered on his noble forehead. I nodded. He knocked, not very confidently. We listened, but there was no sign of movement.
‘She must have retired for the night.’
He relaxed visibly, and turned to leave.
‘Knock harder,’ I suggested.
He hesitated, so I did it myself, with my fist.
More silence. Perhaps this was a useless chase, after all.
And then I heard footsteps, very quiet, moving across the floor. The faintest glow of light appeared under the door. Someone was definitely there. A tiny star of light appeared in the door, at eye level. Whoever it was observed us through a peephole.
And then the door rattled with a mad fury.
Khay jumped back.
I broke the seal myself, quickly untied the knots of the cord that bound the bolts, and threw open the doors.
37
The chamber was dreary, lit by the oil lamp she carried, and niches in the wall where cheap candles burned with an oily, smoky light, casting a dismal light on everything. Mutnodjmet, sister of Nefertiti, wife of Horemheb, was very thin; her sunless skin clung to her elegant bones, which were painfully obvious through the folds of her plain robe. Her skull was shaved. She wore no wig. Her shoulders were rounded. Her face, which carried the same high cheekbones as her sister’s but had none of its poise, was somehow inert, and her eyes would have been sorrowful were they not also apathetic. She was a hollow thing. She gave off a desperate, sad, unanswerable neediness. But I also knew I could not trust her in any way, for despite her lassitude, need was coiled inside her, like a cobra, poised.
A dwarf stood on either side of her. They wore good-quality, matching clothes and jewellery, and matching daggers, indicating they were of prestigious rank. This was not unusual, for many men of such stature and appearance had made their way into responsible positions within the royal courts of the past. Unusually, however, they were identical. They did not look happy to be disturbed.
Mutnodjmet continued to stare at me uncomprehendingly, her head lowered, her mouth slack. She seemed unable to make sense of who I might be, or what we might be doing there.
‘Why have you brought me nothing?’ she mewed, in a tone that was much deeper than disappointment.
‘What should I bring you?’ I asked.
She considered me with her dull eyes, suddenly yelled a remarkable set of abuses at me, then shuffled off into another chamber. The dwarfs continued to gaze at us, with unfriendly expressions on their faces. I assumed they knew how to use their daggers. Perhaps their small stature would give them an advantage; after all, I thought ruefully, plenty of damage can be inflicted below the waistline.
‘What are your names?’
They exchanged a brief look, as if to say: ‘Who is this idiot?’
Khay intervened.
‘We are here only briefly to visit the Princess.’
‘She receives no visitors,’ said one of the dwarfs in an unexpectedly resonant voice.
‘None?’ I asked.
‘Why do you want to see her?’ said the other one, in an identical voice.
It was like talking to two faces with one mind. There was something comical about it all.
I smiled.
They were not amused, and their little hands went to their daggers’ handles. Khay began to prevaricate, but he was interrupted.
‘Oh just let them in,’ she shrieked, from the other chamber. ‘I want company. Anything, to make a change from you two.’
We moved down the hallway, off which I noticed several more or less empty rooms for storage, and a cooking area equipped with shelves and storage pots and jars, and came to a larger salon. We sat on stools, while she reclined on a bed. The room was basic, and somehow underfurnished, as if she had inherited a few second-rate leftovers from the family mansion. She watched us with her jaded eyes, circled with excessive and inaccurately applied lines of kohl. She looked Khay over like a fish that had gone off.
‘I bring you Rahotep, Seeker of Mysteries. He insisted on meeting you.’
She looked down her nose at him, and giggled.
‘What a cold dish he is. I wouldn’t feed
him to a cat…but you.’
She looked me directly in the eye.
I ignored her blatant cue. She cackled suddenly, her head thrown back like a melodramatic actor.
I continued to hold her gaze.
‘Oh. I see; the strong and silent type. Perfect.’
She tried to gaze back like a courtesan, but she faltered, giggled, and suddenly collapsed into hysterics.
Someone had supplied her recently enough. She was still in the happy phase. Soon that would fade, and she would be in the clutches of her grim need again. I felt excitement rising in my chest, like a wonderful panic, for here was the missing connection. But would she be capable of doing the things I thought she had done? Could she have placed the stone carving, the box containing the mask of animal remains, and the doll? She resided within the royal quarters, but her freedom of movement seemed no greater than that of an animal within a cage. Her rooms were sealed from the outside. Someone was controlling her; but who? Not her husband, at least not directly, because he was far away. It had to be someone who had regular access to the palace, and in particular to these chambers. Also, it had to be someone who could supply her. The answer was so tantalizing. Was whoever had killed the young people, also managing the Princess? One question at a time, and I might be able to prove the connection, slowly, carefully, precisely.
‘Who supplies you?’ I said.
‘With what?’ she said, her eyes glittering.
‘With the opium poppy.’
Khay was on his feet instantly.
‘This is an appalling breach of protocol, and a disgusting accusation.’
‘Sit down and shut up!’
He was deeply affronted.
‘You have your own addictions,’ I added, purely for my own vindictive pleasure. ‘Addiction to wine is no different to what she’s doing. You can’t live without it, and neither can she. What’s the difference?’
He huffed but found he had no reply to that.
‘That’s true,’ she said, quietly. ‘It’s all there is. I tried to refuse it. But in the end, life without it is disappointing. It’s just so boring. So-nothing.’