We drove to Meryra’s villa. By now the population was clearly changing and growing, as people arrived for the Festival. The atmosphere was changing too: it carried a new tension, partly from the fact of there being too many people cramped together in one place that was not yet ready to receive them. But there was something else, an undercurrent of fear that had not been there before. I noticed more armed Medjay on the streets, and not in pairs but in units, as if preparing for the great event. It seemed, suddenly, that these new buildings, temples and office complexes could shiver, quake and collapse into the dust of their making for no reason. The world no longer felt solid; it felt conditional. There were tremors of uncertainty under our feet.
We arrived at the villa just as Meryra’s celebration procession was making its way along the street. The man himself was carried on a high throne, together with his wife in a long wig and a pleated linen gown. They both looked highly satisfied with themselves and their elevation above all others. He seemed the man of the moment. The late light shone on his gold collars. The parade passed into the main house with shouts and cries, and Meryra was lifted down and, to calls of praise and congratulation, and the casting of flowers, accompanied inside his house, presumably to change his robes.
Suddenly Parennefer was at my side.
‘How did it go?’
‘Everything you said about her was true.’
He gazed about the crowd, taking note of who was and who was not there. ‘No sign of Ramose of course. Apparently he was invited but sent a message of apology saying he had urgent affairs of state to resolve. But of course no-one’s buying that.’ He paused meaningfully.
‘Let me guess,’ I said, as we pushed past the guards and into the open courtyard of the villa. It was paved with alabaster, and lined with trees. A long pool glimmered by candlelight. ‘He’s jealous of Meryra’s promotion.’
Parennefer clicked his tongue and flicked out his hands. ‘Of course that. But not only that. It creates a dilemma. Meryra’s politics are opposed to Ramose’s. And now, since he’s been publicly favoured by Akhenaten, he has the power to influence events and decision-making.’
‘And what are his politics?’ I asked.
‘He’s dedicated to domestic issues. He doesn’t care about much else other than flattering the King. Ramose thinks the Great Estate is threatened by the barbarians that surround us. He thinks we’re all ignoring the instabilities in our foreign territories. He thinks we need to turn our attention to solving them through military campaigns. Meryra thinks we can solve them and our domestic issues simultaneously by inviting the various parties to the Festival. Bring them all here, give them a talking-to, show them a good time, demonstrate who’s in charge, and so on. Ramose thinks that’s like inviting a gang of tomb robbers to dinner, giving them your knives and offering them your wife.’
‘I think Ramose has a point,’ I said.
Parennefer sighed. ‘I know. But Meryra has the ear of Akhenaten. We must have Nefertiti restored. What would happen if, during the Festival, she’s still not here, or, worse still, is revealed as having been murdered? It would hugely damage the prestige of the event in front of everyone. It would open up all sorts of flaws in the appearance of power, just at the moment when we most need to assert our supremacy.’
I decided not to mention the argument between Akhenaten and Ramose, and the few fragmentary words I had overheard, which now seemed to take their place, like shards of evidence, in a possible version of that conversation which ran along the lines: do you not see the danger to which you are committing us by bringing together these conflicting and mutually adversarial foreign powers at the worst possible time? But Akhenaten’s dilemma was acute: preparations and negotiations had taken many months, if not years; all the visiting parties had to travel for several weeks at least to attend; most were on their way, arriving within a few days. If he abandoned the Festival now, the consequences could be catastrophic for his authority and his power-base. His enemies would say he was significantly weakened either way. No, cancellation was not an option. I wondered how he slept at night.
Suddenly I heard a scream. I looked up and saw a small sun of intense, crackling white fire, with arms and legs struggling below it, emerge from the main door of the house and run as if dancing crazily in small, agonized zig-zags, emitting high shrieks. Everyone hurried back, crying out in horror, as the burning figure ran blindly among the crowd.
I ran forward and cast a jug of water over the figure: but this only enraged the fire. So I pulled a decorated covering from a bench, and threw it over the man, pulling him to the ground to suffocate the flames that seemed to burn ever more fiercely. The heat was more intense than ordinary fire, and gave off a strongly noxious smell; quickly it was burning through the covering. Khety swiftly found a heavier cloth, and we finally extinguished the flames. We stood back, brushing the last burning tatters from our own clothes and hands.
The body itself twitched and trilled rapidly in its mortal agony, and then fell still. The stench of burned flesh and hair was disgusting. The courtyard was absolutely silent. I pulled away the burned and scorched materials from the upper gown, which was expensive and magnificent, and saw gold collars.
It was Meryra.
Then his wife emerged from the house. She stepped towards the body as if in a trance. When she saw all that remained of her husband, she let out a high, ululating scream, and then collapsed into the arms of her attendants. Instantly there was pandemonium among the guests, who fled in panic like a herd of desert antelope, the women kicking off their sandals the better to run.
Among the chaos, and surrounded by Priests in white linen gowns, I examined the corpse. I carefully peeled back the textiles that were now fused to the head’s remains. Not much was left. The flesh was charred, and as I gently separated the burned material patches of white bone were exposed. It looked indeed as if the flesh had been eaten away, as well as burned. The eyes were milk-white, like a cooked fish. I noticed around the scalp, however, patches of something black and viscous like tar, still steaming. Bitumen. This would account in part for the noxious scent I had noticed. Adhering to this sticky pitch were tufts of burned, matted fibre. Hairs. The remains of a wig. It must have been painted with bitumen on the inside, and then suffused with some intensely distilled, highly volatile substance that, once alight, burned with a terrible incandescence. And in turn the greater the heat, the more liquid and flammable the bitumen would have become. The burning wig would very quickly have become fused to the victim’s head. I tried again to understand the scent, but although I caught something-strange, pungent, acidic, almost with a hint of garlic in it perhaps-it was confused by the stench of the burned flesh.
Parennefer stood to one side in shock, his face glistening with perspiration, his eyes blinking. ‘How could this happen?’ he said, over and over. I felt like slapping him. It seemed very clear to me: this was another accurate blow aimed at the vulnerable heart of the Great Estate. The High Priest of the Aten had been burned to death on the night of his glory by a fire of judgement.
Suddenly, the courtyard was stormed. Armed Medjay on chariots thundered through the gate, leaped down and surrounded us and the body. Others were swiftly directed to fan out and search and occupy the villa and its outbuildings. From the dark heart of this noisy operation appeared a tall, solid figure. Mahu. He stood over the body, ignoring my presence. He looked carefully at everything. Then, still without looking at me, he said, ‘Take him away.’
I was tied up, trussed like a pig and thrown onto a wagon, which was driven away at speed through the city. The shadows of the buildings ran over me. I looked up at the roofs of houses and the high, still stars above them. I knew where we were going.