Egypt (3 page)

The evening sun had dropped low now, and the sky was turquoise, indigo, crimson and gold; the sweet northern breeze of the evening hour had begun to cool the air. At a discreet nod from Nakht, the servants took down the exquisitely embroidered awnings, and lit many little oil lamps. The guests settled on chairs–with low chaises for the women–set out for comfort. I looked at their affluent faces and opulent outfits, gilded by the last of the evening light. They lived in a different world from those in the streets all around them.

I shadowed Nakht as he moved over to a small coterie of close friends who frequented his mansion. Hor the poet was talking, as usual; wittily and bitchily entertaining his friends with scurrilous accounts of high-level indiscretions and scandals, usually of a sexual nature. I used to think poets were dreamers of truth and beauty, with their heads in the Otherworld. But Hor was chubby and self-satisfied, worldly and successful. His little fingers were heavy with valuable gold rings. He was famous for a series of verses, circulated anonymously some years ago, which daringly satirized Ay, once vizier, now King. Today such things would earn him summary execution.

‘Friends, I have written a new poem,' he announced ostentatiously. ‘It is a trifle, but perhaps I may impose it upon you…'

A polite murmur of encouragement followed.

‘I hope it is a cheerful one,' said someone.

‘There is no such thing as a cheerful poem,' he replied. ‘Happiness writes in water, not ink.'

Everyone nodded as if this was a very wise thing to say. He assumed his posture of poetic delivery, head tilted, fingers of the right hand raised, and when he had satisfied himself that he had everyone's attentive silence, he intoned:

Who can I trust today?

Brothers are evil, and friends have no compassion
.

Hearts are greedy

And each man steals

His neighbour's worldly goods
.

Compassion has perished
,

Violence walks the ways
,

Evil runs rampant

Throughout the land–

Evil, endless evil…

And so it went on. When it was over, his cheerless dirge–which I thought truthful, but repetitive and not particularly original–was met with a worried silence, before the audience applauded hastily. Nakht sensed the mood of the evening was threatening to turn the wrong way.

‘Remarkable poem. Concise, memorable and honest,' he said.

‘I see I have shocked you all a little. But to be a poet is to accept the responsibility of speaking the truth! No matter what the cost to my personal safety,' said Hor, taking a deep, sustaining gulp from his cup of wine.

‘Your relationship with the truth has always been a very flexible and accommodating one,' said Nebi, a well-known architect, dressed in an expensive embroidered tunic.

‘Of course it has, in matters of men and this world. I'm a poet, not a complete fool…' Hor replied.

‘But the truth itself is so complicated these days,' said another.

‘The truth is always the truth,' said Nakht, smiling at his own triteness.

Hor waved him away. ‘I can't bear platitudes. They actually hurt my feelings,' he said.

All this talk of truth was making me want to go and do something useful.

‘However, I have heard some interesting news, friends,' continued Hor, smiling his evil little grin. The others huddled a little closer, checking over their shoulders to make sure no one else was listening. And then, after a carefully timed pause, the poet leaned forward, as if among conspirators, and in a theatrical whisper said: ‘
He
will soon be with the Gods.'

Everyone understood what he meant but could not say. Ay, the hated tyrant who ruled over the Two Lands, had long outlived the expectation of his natural life.

‘But this is hardly
new
news. And even if he were to pass on, how would anyone really know? He's looked dead for years…' joked Nebi's wife, to a little round of laughter.

‘Mark my words. I have it on authority: it may be only weeks. And none of us will be laughing then.'

The guests glanced at each other and shivered, as if the balmy evening air was suddenly running with strange, cold currents.

‘So the moment we have all feared for so very long is about to arrive! The end of this great dynasty–and the end of the age of peace and prosperity!' cried another, mournfully.

‘And so at last comes General Horemheb's chance,' said Nebi. ‘And with it perhaps the end of the world as we have known it.'

‘The general will claim more than the crowns. He will claim everything. And then he will do what he likes with us…' said an older man, with his elegantly beautiful young wife sitting subserviently behind him.

‘I heard he has a secret papyrus on which he has recorded a list of the names of all his enemies, and all those who have opposed him, or failed to support him, over the years,' whispered Nebi.

‘How many of us will be on that list!' replied the older man, looking around at the company.

‘It is a dismal prospect,' agreed Hor. Lifting his stubby hand to the west, like a tragic actor, he intoned: ‘Like an army of shadows, his numberless soldiers in their divisions will return from their long campaigns against our arch-enemies, the Hittites, and turn their forces instead upon our own great people, to conquer and dominate and suppress our liberty. I see his ships, under blood-red sails, appearing out of the dark night. I see his troops occupying the streets of our city. I see the best men led forth to execution. I see calamity. I see blood running in the streets. I see the world turned upside down.'

The audience seemed spellbound by his prophecy. I glanced at Nakht, who was observing the poet. We exchanged a slight rise of the eyebrows at the oracular melodrama of the performance. But Hor was serious.

‘I have you all amazed. But Horemheb is famous for his cruelties and his passion for revenge. I heard a story, from the mouth of one who was there, that, once, the general ordered a captive Hittite commander to be boiled alive before him, for his entertainment …
while he ate his dinner
.'

There were cries of revulsion among the group. More guests had gathered to listen, with their goblets and trays. But at this point, Nakht intervened.

‘Come now, friend. Your poetic imagination is a great gift, but as a prophet perhaps you relish your visions of doom too greatly. The future is not so sure. Nor is it necessarily so bleak. No oracle can decide for certain what will happen. Indeed, we have reasons for imagining a different future altogether.'

‘Such as? The ascension of Horemheb bringing “order” and “a return to the old values” and so on…?' said Hor, sarcastically.

‘His ascension would, in any case, be entirely illegitimate: he has not one drop of royal blood in him. Even Ay himself could claim a bloodline association with the royal family, however debatable. But Horemheb has simply married his way into the family, driven his poor first wife madly to her death, and then made the Queen, last of the true dynasty, into his sworn enemy,' said Nakht.

He rose, and walked among the little gathering. ‘Life, prosperity, health to the Queen,' he intoned loyally, to appreciative murmurs from most of those present. And then he continued. ‘Friends, is Horemheb truly so powerful? Has he no opposition? Yes, he is General of the army of the Two Lands of Egypt; but do we, the leading men of Thebes, have no faith in our own power and authority? Do intellect and morality count for nothing in the way the future unfolds? Does Amun, the God of our great city, and of the royal family itself, have no power to save us? Can we not save ourselves?'

There was a murmur of support for Nakht's speech from the guests. But only Hor spoke what was on everyone's mind.

‘We would not be in this position at all if King Tutankhamun had not died in such tragic circumstances. He would have ruled, perhaps gloriously. There would have been heirs. The empire might have been great again. A new king, son of kings, could have emerged, heralding a bright future. Instead of which…'

He held up his squat hands, with their many gold rings, and shrugged helplessly.

‘The King's death was an accident. No one could have foreseen it, or prevented it,' replied Nakht, in a manner that warned everyone from contradicting him, or from saying anything further.

Only one person spoke up: ‘It is true, there is a crisis in this land. Outside this bubble of affluence and illusion there is desperation. Poverty, cruelty and injustice have done their work on the people; corruption has replaced justice for the poor, and contempt has replaced respect for dignity, labour and integrity. Greed is our king, and corruption is his servant.'

Everyone turned in astonishment to stare at me, because the angry, bitter voice was mine. Nakht stared at me with a remarkably unfriendly detachment. Everyone else clearly thought I was mad and would be instantly dismissed; a servant dares to speak! But someone was slowly clapping. It was Hor.

‘I remember you, sir; you are that Medjay Seeker of Mysteries who used to write poetry in his innocent youth.'

‘I am Rahotep,' I replied.

‘There is truth in what you say. Truth is a dangerous muse. One dies for the truth.'

He plucked a silver goblet of wine from a tray, and thrust it into my hand.

‘To the truth! And much good it may do us,' he cried sarcastically, and drank the toast. Then he nodded at me, and walked away, quickly followed by the other guests.

‘To the truth,' I muttered, and drank from the goblet. I was in for another shock. The wine was superbly rich, with a dark, melancholy beauty. Such were the pleasures of wealth.

When I looked up I saw Nakht was staring oddly at me, but then he turned his back and began to talk to another guest.

I should have hurried home through the dark streets, with the bag of leftovers for the family. At the end of the night, Nakht had pointedly said nothing about my outburst. As he handed me my small payment of gold, and the parcel of food and wine, he simply ordered me to accompany him to an important meeting, tomorrow, at noon, in a tone that would brook no discussion. I was about to try to apologize, in my clumsy fashion, but he bade me a brief goodnight, and swiftly shut the door.

The evening had left me in a foul temper. The last thing I needed was to vent my anger on my wife and children. So, taking Thoth by the leash, I headed to a backstreet tavern, an old haunt where I went when I wanted to think, undisturbed. I ordered a small jug of wine, and chose a rickety stool in the corner, where the shadows could keep me company, and no one would approach me. Thoth settled down by my feet. In any case, by this late hour the place was emptying out; the only other drinkers were workmen and labourers. Their exhausted faces looked drawn in the guttering light from the oil lamps; they gripped their drinking bowls with work-damaged hands twisted like claws to the habits of their labours. When the wine arrived in its jug, it tasted exactly how I felt: cheap, crude and bitter.

I took the papyrus out, unfolded it, and pondered the black star. All gangs have their own signs and symbols. They define their identity, and differentiate themselves from their rivals, by gestures, articles of clothing, and codes of language and behaviour–nicknames, complicated handshakes, ‘knock three times' types of things. One gang identified themselves by leaving a crisscross slashed across the faces of their victims. Probably this black star was just another such sign, made up for effect. But as I sat there in the shadows with my cheap wine, I couldn't help feeling it suggested something darker and stranger. I told myself to get a grip. I was giving it too much credence; this was almost certainly nothing more than the work of a lunatic with a taste for fancy symbolism.

Suddenly I realized someone was watching me.

‘What have you got there?'

It was my old associate, Khety. We had worked together for years, he as my assistant, until promotion had offered him other avenues of advancement, and my unofficial demotion made it necessary for him to move on without me. I'd watched him rise rapidly through the ranks. A strange, slightly uncomfortable distance had grown up between us that neither had attempted to cross for some time. And yet now, suddenly, here he was. He still looked strikingly young–his hair still black, his open face lively, and from the look of him he was still as fit and lithe as a hunting dog.

‘Just looking at you makes me feel old.'

He grinned.

‘Cheerful as ever,' he replied.

‘What are you doing here?' I said.

‘I was just passing,' he said.

‘A likely story…'

He let Thoth sniff his hand, and then stroked his head.

I pushed a stool at him, and poured him some wine. He drank, grimaced, but said nothing, just gazed into the bitter wine, as if it told him everything he needed to know.

‘If I'd known you were coming, I'd have ordered something classier,' I said.