I woke up with the name Horemheb going through my mind. I looked up at the dust drifting through the blades of strong light already piercing the broken strips in the reed roof. Khety’s pallet was empty. I heard someone moving through the outer room, and reached for my dagger. The door scraped open, and in he came, carrying a basket. How had I slept through him leaving? I must be losing my touch.
‘Breakfast.’
We ate fruit and sugar-bread, and shared between us a jug of beer and a handful of olives.
‘I want to pay a visit to Horemheb,’ I said. ‘But how?’ I was, after all, supposed not to exist.
We munched on our olives, thinking.
‘What if he doesn’t know you’ve disappeared?’ Khety said after a short while. ‘Why should he? Who would think to tell him? What if you just request an audience, say who you are, and that Akhenaten has commissioned you to investigate a very important mystery and you need to speak to him?’
It had the merit of simplicity. Akhenaten’s name would get me through the door. I could be who I really was and, during the interview, feel my way carefully to see whether I could sense or test the direction of his loyalties. I could inform him of the disappearance of Nefertiti, and observe his reaction. I could assess his relationship with Mahu perhaps, without compromising further the safety of my family. On the other hand, he could have me arrested. But it was worth the risk.
Khety discovered where Horemheb was being accommodated, in the northern suburbs-not, as I would have expected given his status, in the southern. Perhaps this was because he was therefore closer to the northern palaces, which were the more domestic and private of the royal residences. We decided to avoid the streets, despite the cover of the crowds, and since we could not make our way along the banks of the river-for the royal gardens ran down to the water’s edge-we hired instead a small barque. We skirted the docks, which even at this early hour were busy. Even more boats of all kinds had anchored overnight, nodding and bumping together like a floating shanty town.
We sailed slowly down the river. The first of the light as it rose above the eastern hills revealed the brilliant colours of the Red Land as well as the languorous, shining currents of the river, illuminated here and there by the shafts of light angling down through the eastern riverside trees. The hillsides, with their rock tombs and construction gangs, remained in grey-yellow and black shadow. Shadoufs, those clever new designs, worked ceaselessly under the trees, drawing water to supply the green force of the city. And on the west bank, workers and slaves, Egyptian and Nubian, bent to the green and yellow fields. No rest for them if they were to supply the endless, monstrous appetite of the city.
We steered the barque into a small pier and tied it to a post. Here were fewer people, although a cargo boat was unloading goods and foodstuffs, and several smaller vessels were ferrying field workers and crops to and fro across the river. We walked up to the Royal Road. To the south, in the distance, we could see the Great Aten Temple, which set the northern boundary of the central city, rising above all other buildings; its pennants drifted in the faint morning breeze. To the north, villas had been constructed on either side of the road within high mud-brick walls. A number of larger buildings in complexes stood out from the low-lying houses. Khety knew them; he told me the north city included the Riverside Palace, a square tower that lay next to the river, just under the northern hills where they curved to meet the river, while to the south of us stood another palace.
‘Who resides there?’
‘I don’t know. It’s empty. They say it’s full of amazing paintings of animals and birds.’
To the east were the desert altars facing the rising sun. And above them, cut into the hillsides, Khety pointed out more great tombs.
‘Whose are they?’
Khety shook his head and shrugged. ‘The rich and powerful.’
The rest of the area seemed a more haphazard collection of low-level buildings. In the darkness of their workshops carpenters laboured, metalsmiths hammered; the pungent smells of wood shavings, hot fires and beaten metal drifted into the street. Rubbish of all kinds-food, building materials, broken pots, ruined sandals, bits of toys, scraps of linen-lay dumped in every vacant lot like temples of detritus for the scavenging cats and birds to worship at.
Like many of the other villas, Horemheb’s lay inside a rectangle of long, high, crenellated mud-brick walls with just one main gateway and no other windows or doorways. The lintel over the gateway was not inscribed. No-one, it seemed, had yet claimed ownership of this house, although someone must have paid for its costly construction. The finish on the exterior was immaculate, almost shiny it was so new.
We gave my name and authorities to the guard at the entry. He was uniformed. I asked him which division he belonged to. He looked me up and down as if I was too fat and soft, and replied, with the tone of hostile politeness that afflicts so many of our military, ‘Akhetaten division, sir.’
We were escorted up the entrance path, past a small domestic chapel where there were small statues of Akhenaten and Nefertiti. I paused, deliberately making some kind of fake, sanctimonious gesture of respect.
‘Do you worship much?’
The guard was irritated. ‘We worship as we are commanded to worship.’ But there was a tone in his voice that said: and we don’t much like it.
We turned right, walked on through the gardens where the heat of the day was now settling, and arrived at the welcome shade of a small courtyard with high walls. At this point the guard passed us over to another guard. He saluted as dismissively as possible, and turned away. The new guard led us up some stairs and into the main house.
A large, cool, airy loggia gave on to several other still more ample and airy pillared rooms around a central space lit by high windows. The air smelled of fresh paint and wood dust. The floor was unscratched and polished to a mirror shine. And the furniture looked as if it had been placed there that very morning. There was also a similar air of efficiency and purpose in the conduct of the uniformed men going about their business. These were career men, not conscripts or mercenaries. Quiet conversations were orchestrated with crisp nods, appreciative tilts of the head, wry smiles, evidently sensible remarks, and smart glances around the room. Several Nubians of high rank were gathered together in a serious conference in the loggia on the far side of the main room.
A secretary seated at a desk noticed us. Khety addressed him quietly. He shook his head. Khety remonstrated with him, and produced the authorities from Akhenaten. The secretary nodded, and walked off crisply along the corridor. We eased ourselves into two elegant chairs, their scrolled arms ending in gilded sphinx heads.
As we waited, I looked at these men, the commanding set of their young faces, the confident manner of their conduct, the precision and understated expense of their garments and uniforms, the inclusiveness of their racial and social backgrounds, and above all the vivid sense of the secret codes of their society in their measured gestures and responses. And I began to realize that here, after all, was the future, not in crazy worship of the sun or in new cities built in the desert, conjured by treasure and labour out of the dust and the light. No, the future was the military. These were the next generation of the King’s sons, from the elite Egyptian families. Many of them had been taken from their foreign homelands and raised as child-ransom in the nurseries of the Great House-all now grown into ambitious, educated, clear-minded young men, seeing the opportunities for advancement opening quickly before them. Who knew what loyalties, grudges and ambitions they nursed? They looked like men who had a plan, who knew their entitlement and were waiting for their time to come. They looked like men who were not afraid.
The secretary approached us and murmured to me that I would be seen now. Leaving Khety to wait for me, I followed the man along more corridors and into a private chamber. He knocked on an ordinary-looking door, and I was admitted into an ordinary kind of room, transformed into a small office by a desk and two chairs. Absolutely nothing to show the status and ambition of the man, as if he had refused all superficial trappings of power.
The man at the desk was shockingly handsome. His frame was not remarkably sturdy or robust-he was no giant-and his head, on his small but powerful shoulders, was not exceptionally noble, but his body was pure worked muscle-not a deben weight of casual fat on him anywhere-and his face exhibited pure focus, not the carnivorous appetite of Mahu but something alert and entirely unsentimental. I judged he wouldn’t kill for pleasure, but that he would kill for his own reasons all the same, and think nothing of it. I guessed his heart was nothing more to him than a well-disciplined muscle that pumped his cool blood.
He moved away from the desk, shook my hand with a brief firmness, and looked me directly in the eyes. There was not a trace of uncertainty in his look. Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then he gestured for me to sit and offered me refreshments, which I declined. He sat down in his chair-the same as mine, on the other side of the desk-his posture poised like a heron beside a fish-filled pond.
‘What can I do for you?’
He meant: state your business. I outlined my office and my role in the investigation of a great mystery. He kept his eyes on me all the time, observing my face as much as listening to my tale. When I had finished he looked away, up at the small, high window. He stretched out his legs, put his hands behind his head. His handsomeness continued to puzzle me, as I could not locate it in any particular feature; it seemed to come from a collusion of parts that were in themselves not especially remarkable. I recalled another of Tanefert’s writers who said that most people had enough material in them for several faces. Not here. This man had one face only.
He fixed his eyes on me. ‘You have told me an interesting tale, full of great excitements and dangerous possibilities, but what I don’t understand is this. Why you are here? Why do you wish to talk to me?’ He sat up again, and leaned forward.
‘Because you are related to the Queen, and the Queen has vanished.’
‘You think I am involved in her disappearance?’ His face was cold, challenging.
‘I need to speak to everyone who knows the Queen as part of my investigation.’
‘Why?’
‘I am trying to build up a picture of the circumstances of her disappearance. Not just the forensic detail but the emotional and political background.’
‘And from this you will deduce the guilty party.’ It was not a question.
I nodded.
‘Your method is flawed,’ he said, lightly.
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Because it will not get you to the heart of the matter. Talking never does. It is overvalued in every way. Also, you have nearly run out of time. If the Queen is not recovered in time for the Festival, then you have failed.’
‘There is still time.’
He paused, then said, ‘You are Medjay. I am Army. Why should I talk to you?’
‘Because I have authorizations from Akhenaten himself, and those transcend the hierarchical distinctions between us.’
‘Ask me a question, then.’
‘What is your relationship to the Queen?’
‘She is my sister-in-law. You know this already.’
‘I know the facts. I mean, are you close?’
He sat back and stared at me. ‘No.’
‘Do you support the Great Changes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Unequivocally?’
‘Of course. You have no right to ask such a question. It has no bearing on the matter in hand.’
‘With respect-’
‘Your question is disrespectful. You imply treason.’
‘Not at all, and the question is relevant. Whoever has taken the Queen has a political motivation.’
‘I support unequivocally the suppression and destruction of corruption and incompetence.’
Which was not quite the same thing, and we both knew it. We had quickly reached an impasse.
‘Are you or are you not accusing me of having a role in the disappearance of the Queen?’ His eyes narrowed on me.
‘I am not accusing you of anything. I am trying to understand the truth.’
‘Then you are failing. This has not been an impressive display of your qualities as an investigator. I fear for the Queen. Her life is not in competent hands. I wish I could be of more assistance in her recovery, but now I must continue with my work. There are preparations to be made before the Festival.’
‘Such as?’
‘None of your business.’
He stood up and opened his office door, dismissing me. I needed to make a move. I produced the gold feather and placed it on the desk between us. He suddenly looked very interested, and quietly closed the door.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘Can you tell me about it?’
He picked it up and twirled it between his fingers. ‘It opens doors.’
‘How can a feather open doors?’
‘How literal you are. It opens doors to rooms that do not exist, and to words that are not spoken.’
Interestingly, Horemheb clearly did not possess such a feather. But I could tell from the way he handled it, moving it slowly in the light, that it held considerable attraction for him.
‘Who would possess such a thing?’
He put it down with a reluctance that betrayed his desire to possess it for himself.
‘I believe seven such feathers are in existence,’ he said.
‘Who possesses them?’
‘At last. The right question.’
I waited.
‘I am not going to do all your work for you,’ he said.
‘Let me talk something through, then. Let’s say there are men of great power, disposed against the changes.’
‘It is a revolution. Let us be precise in our language.’
‘These are men who stand to lose a great deal of wealth and power, men who inherit the world through each generation.’
‘Go on.’
‘Families close to Akhenaten who will not, for one reason or another, benefit from the Great Changes.’
‘Go on.’
‘Led by one particular individual.’
He looked at me enigmatically. I decided to play my card.
‘Ay.’
I let the name sit there, like the feather, on its own. He smiled, conspiratorially. I felt like I had won a round of senet against Thoth himself, the wise baboon. But the victory lasted only a moment.
‘You speak carelessly,’ he said softly, opening the door again. ‘If he were to hear of such a thought, he would be displeased. He is as close as possible to the King himself. There is not a hair’s breadth between them.’
I was about to rise, certain the interview was concluded, when he spoke again.
‘Let me just offer you one clue before you leave. The Society of Ashes.’
His tone was full of a concentrated implication, and there was something malicious in it. He was feeding me words with the intention that I unwittingly fit in with his plans.
‘The Society of Ashes? What is that?’
‘A mystery.’
He picked up the feather, twirled it enigmatically in the light, and offered it back to me. I moved to the door and took it. He was smiling in the way men do who do not know what a smile is.
As I passed him, I asked suddenly, ‘How is your wife?’
For the only time in the meeting he looked unguarded for a moment. In fact he looked disgusted. Perhaps also a flicker of pain, quickly disguised, passed over his face.
‘My wife is none of your business.’
The door closed in my face.