Egypt (5 page)

‘So what is he doing now?'

‘Well, he's finishing his breakfast, and thinking about what to do with the day. He'll probably go fishing. There's plenty of time to fish in the afterlife…'

My father had taken me fishing on his reed boat all through my youth, and had delighted in doing the same with my son; they would both sit for hours in a pleasure of patience. Patience was not one of my son's virtues, but he had never been happier, it seemed, than when he was in a boat with his grandfather. Together, they would watch the busy life of the river, with its population of boats and fishermen, lines of poor women in bright robes washing clothes by the shore, animals grazing and lowering their heads to drink, and great flocks of birds flying overhead to their retreats in the reed marshes, diving down to catch fish. He missed the trips, and he missed my father.

‘Can
we
go fishing?'

His face was earnest and hopeful.

‘Not today. Soon.'

He wrestled himself out of my lap.

‘Why not?' he demanded, his little fists and face suddenly clenched with anger.

‘Because I have to work today. We'll go soon, I promise,' I said.

‘You always say that, and we never do go!' he shouted.

And then he ran out into the yard.

I rubbed my face. Tanefert just shook her head.

‘Go and tell him you'll take him later.'

‘I can't. I promised Nakht I would help him with something.'

She gazed at me.

‘He needs you…'

‘I know. And we need the payments I earn from Nakht. How else will we eat? What do you want me to do?'

We stared at each other for a tense moment.

‘You and that baboon deserve each other. You're both turning into angry old men,' she said, and disappeared with the basket of clean clothes she had been folding.

I made my presence known at Medjay headquarters, as I made sure I did every day. Accompanied by Thoth, I strode under the carved stone image of the Wolf, Opener of the Ways, our standard. The inner courtyard was quiet; just a few people–representatives and petitioners, and women waiting with food for their imprisoned sons or husbands, or bribes for the guards–stood or squatted in the shrinking shadows of the morning. The heat was already scorching. Nebamun's office door was shut. A few Medjay colleagues nodded at me in passing, and Panehesy, the Nubian sergeant, raised his hand to invite me to join him in the morning conference of other officers. I respected Panehesy for his ability to protect his officers from the worst of the politics of the bureaucracy above us all, but these days he had to adhere strictly to the protocols, the deference and the grim compromises required in dealing with Nebamun.

‘Another day of fun and games,' he said blithely, as he passed out the day's duties. He handed me down what he could: usually street patrols. Today was the same. It was a long time since I had been given a good, solid murder to get my teeth into. I knew it wasn't Panehesy's fault. But I felt like a stranger to myself.

‘What about last night?' I asked.

‘Five down, fifty-five thousand to go,' joked a young officer, earning a brief laugh from the others. ‘No disrespect intended,' he added, nodding at Panehesy.

‘I should hope not,' he replied coolly.

‘Let the gangs kill each other off, it saves us the trouble of dealing with them,' said another. The men nodded in agreement.

‘Do you have other ideas about last night?' Panehesy asked me. The others waited for my reply.

‘No,' I replied. ‘Except that one day the gangs are going to be running this city, if we keep ignoring what's happening out there.'

‘And just what do you think we can do about that?' asked the first officer.

I shrugged.

‘Our job?' I said.

The other men looked annoyed by that.

‘Our job is to keep order on the streets of the city. Not to intervene in gang wars we can't win,' said Panehesy quickly. ‘And anyway, the culprits have been arrested. They confessed this morning.'

‘I bet they did,' I said. ‘And presumably they've been executed, too?'

I gazed at Panehesy, and he had the decency to look away first.

As I sat waiting for Nakht in the cool courtyard of his city house, I turned the papyrus with the black star over in my hands. I love evidence, above all things. It is the first of the sacred trinity that presides over the success of any investigation–the others being the witnesses, and, finally, the confessors. But I place less value on the second, and almost none on the last. Not for me the grim drama of the interrogation. For me, the crime scene
is
the truth. So my habit is to read each one obsessively for what is there, for what seems to be there, and most importantly for what should be there but is missing. Most are not so mysterious. But a very few have a special atmosphere, a peculiar feeling of meaningful mystery, which I can only call
elusive
. These, I love.

The scene of the decapitated boys was one of those. Death exacted by decapitation. Time of death: the small hours of the night. Killed elsewhere. Witnesses: none. But step beyond that, and all was mystery. Why were these little Nubian street dealers killed in this supremely efficient, audacious and expert way? Why were they left in a place where they would quickly be found? Why had the street been so carefully swept of sandal prints, wheel tracks, and all signs of struggle? That did not speak of the gangs in the city, whose violence was notoriously incompetent, as casually full of error and emotion as the actions of angry children. But if not them, then who? And why, above all, the mysterious sign of the black star? Why had it been left in the mouth of the boy? Who was supposed to find it? Other gangs? The Medjay? Me? I tried to imagine the scene; I tried to see the men who enacted these murders. They didn't seem like gang men, but they remained shadows.

Nakht suddenly appeared on the mud-brick stairs. How long had he been watching me?

‘What were you thinking about?' he asked.

‘Only about how your house always feels like another world; so close to the chaos of the city just beyond these high walls, and yet so entirely apart,' I replied. ‘Two different worlds … as different as light and dark … order and chaos…'

And it was true. Here was order and tranquillity: birds in their cages sang with pleasure; the plants in their clay pots and shallow pools thrived. Servants went about their tasks in a deferential silence, each obviously knowing and respecting his or her place in the great orderly scheme of Nakht's life. Today I noticed he had taken considerable trouble with his appearance. He was dressed in a superb pleated white gown, and the gold
shebyu
collar he had worn at the party. He cast a cool eye over me, taking in my shabby, dusty, street-worn state.

‘Order and chaos? Well, you're looking rather chaotic yourself,' he observed, with a brief smile.

‘All part of the service, sir,' I replied, realizing my linen tunic was looking the worse for wear.

‘Not where we're going,' he responded.

He took me upstairs, and watched as I washed myself from a basin of cool water, then insisted I borrow a fresh and very fine-pleated, gossamer-thin long white linen tunic, with short sleeves and pleated ends, a fringed kilt, and a standard broad collar–all from his extensive wardrobe. I felt like a stranger to myself in such fine, indeed noble, clothing. It only just fitted, for Nakht is tall and slim as a papyrus reed, and I am thicker-set.

‘How do I look?' I asked.

‘Better,' he said, satisfied, as he looked me over, making minute adjustments.

‘So where are we going?' I asked. ‘Why do I have to dress up?'

‘Wait and see,' he replied. Then he picked up the standard of his rank–a long ostrich feather, curved at the top, on a beautifully painted pole–and set it against his shoulder. As we left the refuge of the house, his security guards swiftly ordered the crowds back and created a cordon between the street doors and his beautiful, lightweight, gold-gilded, extremely expensive chariot, which was drawn by two elegant black horses. We took our places, standing side by side on the leather mesh floor. The guards fell efficiently into place, running before and behind us, and shouting peremptory commands to anyone who dared to get in our way; and we moved off into the noise of the city.

The ways were crowded with pack mules carrying mud-bricks or vegetables, and serving girls going about their domestic errands, and street children begging. Minmose, Nakht's manservant, held on to the back of the chariot, struggling to protect us from the blaze of midday with a sunshade. People stopped and stared at the sight of the great and noble Nakht, with his standard of office, going about his important business, moving through the sea of humanity like a perfect god in his white pleated robes.

Nakht still had not told me where we were going, but as soon as we approached the docks my suspicions were roused. And when we stepped on to a royal palace official boat, they were confirmed. Nakht took his place in the main cabin, out of sight; and once I had satisfied myself about the security of the vessel and its crew of palace shipmen, I stood guard at the entrance to the cabin. The helmsman at his double steering oars cried out his command, the rowers began their labour, and we slipped past the wharves crowded with larger vessels and barges, and out of the great harbour.

As we steered into the main current of the Great River, I felt the air lift and freshen. I raised my face, relishing the vivid river scents, and from further away to the west, beyond the great stone temples and necropolises, the pure simplicity of the desert air. I knew we were heading towards the vast complex of the royal palace of Malkata. I thought back to the last time I had made this same journey. I had not been wearing a borrowed tunic, nor had I been the employee of another man. I had been Rahotep, Seeker of Mysteries, summoned to the funeral of Tutankhamun by a living god, the Queen of Egypt herself. And now I was going back.

Inside the cabin, Nakht was scrutinizing a set of official papyri; but when he saw me looking in, he invited me to enter the shade, and I sat next to him on the handsome bench.

‘You hardly need me as a security guard to take you to the Malkata Palace,' I observed.

‘Nevertheless,' he said meaninglessly, as if otherwise preoccupied.

‘It occurs to me I should apologize for my outburst at your party,' I offered, reluctantly.

‘You spoke out of turn, if not out of character,' he observed, while continuing to run swiftly through the cursive script on his papyrus. ‘You seemed furious about something which is, after all, common knowledge. It was quite inappropriate.'

I shrugged, suddenly feeling like a moody schoolboy before the cool power of a teacher.

‘My tolerance for the easy talk of the elite has all but vanished,' I replied.

‘So now in your wise middle age you think of yourself as the magnificent, embittered sage of truth.' He looked up, scanning my face.

‘Believe me, I see myself very differently,' I replied, perhaps a little stiffly.

He almost smiled.

‘My old friend. I know you see the reality of the streets, and the miseries of the people, and that is a valuable perspective. But remember the world of the wealthy, the priests and the nobles also suffers from dangerous tribulations. The two are not mutually exclusive. Much is at stake for everyone these days. We are all bewildered and tormented by the question of the succession. The future seems very uncertain, and that in itself creates conditions of dangerous unrest.'

‘But while everyone's talking and moaning, the world we thought we knew and believed in is being destroyed all around us,' I said.

Nakht glanced at me somewhat impatiently, and then wrote rapidly with his reed pen, the cursive characters forming fluently in black ink. I envied him his great skill in writing. My own has never been better than clumsy and awkward.

‘And you think you are the only person to notice this, I suppose? And I suppose you also have a proposal to save us all from the abyss of disaster which you foresee? I suppose you know how to solve the problem of the succession? I suppose you know how to balance the vital authority of the royal family against the landed interests and powers of the priesthood and the nobility, and how to protect both against the vaulting ambitions of the army under General Horemheb? Or would you prefer just to stand and watch everything fall apart, and then say, “See? What did I tell you?”'

He could be so frustrating at times, because his rhetoric could quickly trap me into absurdity. And also because he was often right. But I wasn't ready to let this go just yet.

‘You're right, of course. But you and your noble friends all sit in your lovely villas, in your clean, fancy clothes, in your fine jewellery, writing your poems and going about your love affairs, and playing your games of politics. You have no idea of what's going on out there, just the wrong side of your villa walls. The rule of law is toothless, it's powerless. The day before yesterday I saw five young Nubian street kids, just low-level opium dealers…' I said.