Tutankhamun: The Book of Shadows

28

We departed that afternoon. The sky was milky with heat, and the crowds were small and subdued. The currents carried us swiftly beyond the city’s great margins. We had survived the potential dangers of the state visit. Here on this great ship, on the Great River, I felt more in control of the environment. Further north, in the immense marsh-lands of the delta, the river would begin to change, spreading out in numberless branches that would eventually divide and divide again until at last, like a vast, intricate and unnavigable fan, they would run into the ocean to the north. By evening we had moored at a spot chosen for its remoteness from any towns, and even the local villages lay at some distance. We settled down early for the night.

The caravan that set out before dawn the next morning was not a small one. It included a deputation of diplomats, representatives and officials whose function was to be available to the King in case of need, but more importantly to witness and record the King’s deeds, for soon the written statements of his fierce kills and prowess would be commemorated in the carved Scarabs of the Hunts, which would be distributed around the Two Lands. And, of course, the team included uniformed royal guards, outrunners to protect the caravan and charioteers; also armourers who transported the royal weapons, the King’s spears, arrows, nets and shields; the Master of the Hunt and his assistants; the dog and cheetah handlers; then the attendant beaters, and the trackers, whose knowledge of the habits and lairs of the animals would be crucial to the success of the hunt. In the royal caravan, our number included myself and Simut, and Pentu the physician.

The dawn air was cold and pure; the moon was low in the sky, and the stars were just fading. Mist drifted across the shadowy waters, and the first hidden birds began to sing as if to conjure Ra himself with their music. Despite the earliness of the hour, everyone seemed aroused and inspired by the beauty of the scene, as perfect as a great wall painting, and by the prospect of the adventure of the hunt. Horses stamped their feet as they were untethered, and the breath of men and animals plumed in the chilly dark.

The green and black fields were still and silent as our strange cavalcade passed along the rutted ways; and only the earliest of the farmers, and a few wide-eyed, barefooted children arriving at their strips of land before sunrise to take advantage of their water rights, caught a glimpse of the spectacle. They gazed and pointed at us as if at a marvellous dream.

When we came to the margin of the cultivation, we paused. Ahead of us lay the Red Land. I was struck as always by the great silence of its apparent emptiness-holier, for me, than any temple. The sun had just risen about the horizon, and I turned to enjoy the welcome, immediate warmth of its first rays upon my face.

The King stood high on his chariot, and raised his hands to Ra, his God. He was bare-chested, wearing a kilt, and a stole over his shoulder. For a moment his face and body seemed to shine. He held his young lion by its short leather tether, striving for the image of a king, despite his small stature and his golden walking stick. A roar and a long ululation rose up from the hunting teams and the soldiers, a celebration of the start of the hunt, and a shout of warning to the evil spirits of the desert. Then, the moment of ritual accomplished, the King drove his chariot forward, and on this signal we crossed over the eternal border between the Black Lands and the Red.

We followed a course due west, and the rising sun threw the slanted shadows of our marching forms directly ahead of us. The trackers and half of the guard went first, plotting the direction. As we slowly ascended to the desert plateau, the air hummed with heat. The creaking of wooden axles, the occasional stumble of a horse on the loose, gravelly ground, and the panting of the carrying servants and the mules came to me clear and close through the dry air.

We think of the desert as an empty place, but it is not. It is marked and mapped by ancient and newer tracks and by routes worn into the scrub ground by men and animals. As we progressed through the heat of the morning, we encountered occasional drovers and shepherds, those lean and angular nomadic tribesmen who are always on the move; unshaven, their head hair cropped very close to the scalp, their kilts tucked up between their legs, carrying their small rolls of supplies and a few pots on their backs and their long walking sticks in their bony hands as they travel perpetually forward with the same long, languid gait. Their animals, thin and resilient, nibble at whatever they can find, moving at the same slow pace towards some water hole hidden out in the shimmering far places of heat and light.

At times as we progressed through the morning, the trackers cried out, strange high calls like animals or birds, to indicate a sighting: a small herd of desert gazelle or antelope, or ostriches, or caracals, which stood very still, observing us from a safe distance, scenting the wind, and then suddenly vanished in a kicked-up whirl of dust.

As the sun approached its zenith, we stopped to make camp. The trackers found a place which benefited from the protection of a long low bluff to the north-for out here the breeze from that direction at night would be cold, rather than cool-and everyone hurried with practised discipline to their allotted tasks. Quickly a settlement of tents appeared as if out of nowhere. Drills were worked expertly, the sparks quickly blown into flames as the tinder caught; animals were slaughtered; and the rich scent of roasting meat soon filled the desert air. I was hungry. The King sat on his travelling throne, in the luxury of a shady white canopy, fanning himself against the great heat of the day and the flies, and watching the settlement being constructed. Alongside his boxes and his gilded travelling furniture, in this world without walls he looked like a god paying a brief visit to the world. All seemed well.

I walked to the head of the nearest rise to assess the terrain. I shaded my eyes against the harsh glare. In every direction there was nothing to see except the white and grey and red barrenness of the desert, dotted with the occasional tenacious desert bush. I looked back down upon the circle of the encampment. The horses, pack-mules, long-horned sheep and short-haired goats, tethered to thick wooden pegs, were munching on the feed that had been brought along for them. Ducks had been released from their cages, and waddled and pecked furiously at the unpromising desert ground. The hunting dogs and cheetahs, barking and panting in the heat, were kept separate, watched over by their keepers. The tents were all nearly erected, and the King’s had been placed in the very centre of the encampment, for maximum protection. Its golden ball-topped central pole shone in the sun. The hunting chariots stood in a line propped on their stands. It all seemed like a vision of civilization. But when I looked again at the distance in every direction, I absorbed the empty, inhuman vastness of the desert. We were here for pastime and amusement, but our little colourful tents and vehicles looked merely like a child’s toys set out on a boundless wasteland.

Then I saw, far off, a trail of shadow-sticks, figures as tiny as insects, whose path through the wasteland, I realized, would eventually lead to our encampment. Sweating in the glare of the afternoon sun, I hurried back down to the camp, and alerted the guards. Simut came jogging towards me.

‘What?’

‘Strangers approaching-they might just be herdsmen, but they have no animals.’

The guards set forth, and soon brought the men into our presence, prodding at them with their flashing spears. It looked like the meeting of two worlds; ours, with its clean white robes and polished weapons, and theirs, nomadic and dirt-poor, their meagre clothing bright with bold colours and patterns, heads shaved, grins wide and spare of teeth. They were honey-gatherers, who inhabited the margins of the desert lands. The leader stepped forward, bowed his head respectfully, and made an offering of a jar.

‘A gift for the King, for he is the Lord of the Bees.’

He was a delta man, and as such the bee was not only his livelihood but also the symbol of his land. Wild honey is much prized, more so than the variety cultivated from the clay hives of the city gardens. It is said the flavours are as intense as the tears of Ra, because the bees forage among the rare and earliest-opening flowers of the desert; and so these men spend their lives following the transitory blooming of the seasons along the desert margins. I was inclined to think they offered no harm-they were thin as their walking sticks, dark with use and age, and what use could they be against the power of our weapons? I ordered that they be offered food and water, and then I implied they were welcome to continue on their way. They backed away, bowing with respect.

I weighed the honey jar in my hands. The crude vessel was sealed with bees’ wax. I considered opening it, but thought better of it.

‘What should we do with this?’ I asked Simut.

He shrugged.

‘Perhaps you should present it to the King,’ he decided. ‘He has a notoriously sweet tooth…’

At the King’s tent, I was announced, and entered. The broad light of the desert filtered in, glowing on the patterns of the linens on the walls. The royal paraphernalia had been set out to make a temporary palace: couches, chairs, objects of great value, mats, and so on. It was warm inside. A fan bearer stood discreetly behind the King, his eyes seeing nothing, slowly wafting the heated air. The King was eating. As I bowed and offered the jar, I saw my own shadow on the tent wall like a figure in a temple carving making a holy offering to the God.

‘What is it?’ he asked cheerfully, rinsing his fingers in a bowl, and holding them out for a servant to dab dry.

‘It is wild honey from desert flowers. An offering from some gatherers.’

He took it in his elegant hands, and examined it.

‘A gift from the Gods,’ he said, smiling.

‘I suggest we store it, and when we are back in Thebes, it will remind you of this hunting trip.’

‘Yes. A good idea.’

He clapped his hands, and a servant came and removed the jar.

I bowed, moving backwards, but he insisted I remain with him. He offered me a place on a couch opposite him. He seemed much more light-hearted, and I began to think we had been right, after all, to travel out here. Away from the palace of shadows and its perils, his spirits were already much revived.

We drank a little wine, and some more dishes of meat were brought.

‘So this evening we will hunt?’ he asked.

‘The trackers are confident of finding something. There is a watering hole not far off. If we approach downwind, and silently, then there will be many kinds of creature there at sunset. But the trackers also tell me lions are very rare now.’

He nodded, disappointed.

‘We have hunted them almost to extinction. In their wisdom they have retreated deeper into their own domains. But perhaps one of them will answer my call.’

We ate in silence for a little while.

‘I find I love the desert. Why do we condemn something so pure and simple as a place of barbarity and fear?’ he said, suddenly.

‘Men fear the unknown. Perhaps they need to name it, as if by doing so they might exert authority over it. But words are not what they seem,’ I replied.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, they are slippery. Words can change their meaning in a moment.’

‘That is not what the priests tell us. They say the holy words are the greatest power in the world. They are the secret language of creation. The God spoke and the world came into existence. Is it not so?’

He gazed at me, as if daring me to contradict him.

‘But what if words are made by men and not by Gods?’

He looked disconcerted for a moment, but then he smiled.

‘You are a strange man, and an unusual Medjay officer. One could imagine you think the Gods themselves are our own invention.’

I hesitated to reply. He noticed.

‘Be careful, Rahotep. Such thoughts are blasphemy.’

I bowed. He gave me a long, but not antagonistic, stare.

‘I will rest now.’

And so I was dismissed from the royal presence.

I stepped outside the tent. The sun had moved beyond its zenith, and the camp was silent, as everyone but the guards along the periphery, under their sunshades, had retired from the conquering heat of the afternoon. I did not wish to think about gods and men and words any more. Suddenly I felt weary of them all. I listened to the great silence of the desert, and it seemed the finest sound I had heard in a long time.