Tutankhamun: The Book of Shadows

32

We set out in the chariots, properly armed and provisioned, as the sun was setting on the next day. The trackers had reconnoitred the terrain and found more signs. The lion’s territory seemed to centre on the low, shady bluffs at a little distance from the camp. No doubt they provided a haven for whatever life could survive in this harsh place. We carried with us a newly slaughtered goat’s carcass, to tempt him. We waited, our chariots arranged in a wide fan, watching from a careful distance as a tracker rode across the grey landscape with the dead animal, deposited it, and then retreated.

The tracker took up a position next to me.

‘He will be very hungry, for the prey is limited out here, and we have offered him a fine feast. I hope he will take the bait before it is dark.’

‘And if he does not?’

‘Then we must try again tomorrow. It would be unwise to approach him in the darkness.’

And so we waited silently as the sun continued its descent. Ahead of us the shadows of the bluffs lengthened imperceptibly, until, like a slowly rising tide, they reached the carcass, as if to consume it. The tracker shook his head.

‘We are too late,’ he whispered. ‘We can return tomorrow.’

But just then, he tensed like a cat.

‘Look. There he is…’

I peered into the darkening landscape, but saw nothing until at last I noticed the slightest movement of shadow against shadow. Everyone had noticed the tracker’s reaction, and a sudden jostling of movement passed down the line of men and horses. The tracker held up his hand for absolute silence. We waited intently. Then the shape moved forward, stealthily, slinking, as it approached the carcass. It raised its head to scan the terrain, as if wondering where this ready-made feast could have come from, and then, satisfied, settled down to feast.

‘What should we do?’ I whispered to the tracker.

He considered carefully.

‘It is too dark to hunt him now, for we would easily lose track of him. This terrain is difficult. But now we know he will accept our offerings, we can return tomorrow, and tempt him out earlier with more fresh meat. A young adult such as this one has a large appetite; he will not have fed well for a long time. And tomorrow we will be well prepared, and in better positions from which to surround him.’

Simut nodded in agreement. But suddenly, without warning and without support, the King’s chariot jolted forward, and began to gain speed across the rough ground. Everyone was taken entirely by surprise. I saw the lion raise its head, disturbed by the distant noise. Simut and I spurred our own horses, and set off in pursuit of the King. I looked again and saw the lion was now dragging the carcass away towards the cliffs, where we would never find him. I was gaining on the King’s chariot, and shouted at him to stop. He turned around, but gestured as if he could not, or would not, hear me. His face was alive with excitement. I shook my head wildly, but he merely grinned like a schoolboy, and turned away. The chariot wheels clattered alarmingly, and the axles knocked and complained as the wooden structure struggled with the demands of the rough terrain. I glanced up and for the briefest of moments I saw the lion standing and staring. But the King had some distance to cover, and the beast did not seem greatly alarmed.

The King raced onwards, and I saw him struggling to control the chariot, and at the same time to fit an arrow into his bow. Now the lion turned, and his loping strides quickly become full-stretched flight at incredible speed towards the safety of the dark bluffs. I lashed my horse onwards, and gained on the King. I thought surely he would realize there was no chance of hunting the lion in these conditions, but suddenly his chariot jumped up in the air as if it had hit a rock, and then slammed down again. As it did so the left wheel shattered and sheared, the spokes and wheel rim splintered and flew off, and the carriage collapsed on to its left side. It was dragged wildly across the rough ground by the panicked horses. I saw the King gripping on to the side of the chariot in terrror; but in the next moment his body flew up like a rag doll, and then hit the ground at speed, rolling over and over, until it came to rest in the darkness.

I reined in my horse, and my chariot skidded to a halt. I ran to his body. He was not moving. I dropped to my knees beside him. Tutankhamun, Living Image of Amun, was making small sounds that tried and failed to become words. He did not seem to recognize me. There was a puddle of blood, black and shiny, spreading on the dust of the desert.

His left leg above the knee was sticking out at a sickening angle. I carefully peeled the linen of his robe, sticky with blood, away from the skin. Shards of shattered bone protruded through the torn flesh and skin. There was grit and dirt in the horrible, deep wound. He gave a terrible moan of acute pain. I poured water from my flask, and the blood washed away, black and thick. I feared he would die there, in the desert, under the moon and the stars, his head in my hands like a chalice of nightmares.

Simut arrived, and took one look at the disastrous wound.

‘I will fetch Pentu. Don’t move him,’ he shouted, as he rode away.

The tracker and I stayed with the King. He had begun to shiver violently with shock. I tore the panther skin from the floor of the chariot, and covered him with it as gently as possible.

He was trying to speak. I lowered my head to catch his words.

‘I am sorry,’ he kept repeating.

‘The wound is superficial,’ I said, trying to reassure him. ‘The physician is coming. You will be fine.’

He gazed at me from the strange distance of his agony, and I knew he knew I was lying.

Pentu arrived and examined the King. He checked first his head, but aside from the swelling of bruises and long scratches down one side of his face, there were no signs of bleeding at the nose or ears, and so he concluded the skull was not fractured. At least that was something. He then examined the wound and the broken bone by the light of our torches. He glanced up at Simut and me, and shook his head. Not good. We stood apart so that the King could not hear us.

‘We are lucky that the artery in the leg has not been severed. But he is losing a great deal of blood. We must reset this fracture immediately,’ he said.

‘Out here?’ I asked.

He nodded.

‘It is imperative he is not moved again until this is done. I will need your help. This is a difficult bone to set, for the fracture is severe, and the muscles of the leg and thigh are powerful. And there will be some overriding of the shattered bone-ends. But we cannot move him until it is done.’

He assessed the angle of the broken bones. The King’s limbs seemed like the parts of a mangled doll. Pentu placed a rolled-up linen cloth between his chattering teeth. Then as I held his torso and upper thigh firmly in position, and Simut held the other side of his body, Pentu swiftly pushed down on the femur, and with a practised motion jammed the shattered bone-ends together. The King screamed like an animal. The gristly noise of the setting reminded me of the kitchen, when I break apart the haunch of a gazelle, twisting its leg bones from the thigh socket. This was butcher’s work. Then the King vomited, and passed from consciousness.

Pentu set to work by the flickering torchlight, stitching the ugly wound with a curved copper needle he produced from a case made of bird bone. Then he smeared honey and oil on it, and bound it tightly in linen bandages. Finally he made the leg as secure as possible within a splint padded with linen and secured by knots, for the journey back to the camp.

The King was carried into his quarters. His skin was clammy and pale. We gathered around, in a hushed, urgent conference.

‘The fracture is of the worst kind, both because the bone has shattered, rather than snapped across, and because the skin has been torn open, making the flesh vulnerable to infection. There has been loss of blood. But at least everything has been reset. Let us pray to Ra the fever will pass, and the wound heals well,’ said Pentu gravely.

A low sense of dread had fallen upon us all.

‘But he is now asleep, which is good. His spirit will be pleading with the Gods of the Otherworld for more time, and more life. Let us pray they are persuaded.’

‘What should we do now?’ I asked.

‘The most sensible decision medically would be to transport him swiftly to Memphis,’ said Pentu. ‘At least there I can care for him properly.’

Simut interrupted: ‘But in Memphis he would be surrounded by his enemies. Horemheb is likely still in residence. I say we must return him to Thebes in secrecy, as swiftly as possible. And this accident must be kept secret until a public version of events has been agreed with Ay. If the King-life, prosperity and health be upon him-is fated to die, then it must be in Thebes, among his own people, and near to his tomb. And we must control how his death is understood. Of course, if he lives, then he can best be cared for at home.’

We broke camp that night and started our sorrowful journey under the stars, back across the desert towards the distant ship, and the Great River that would carry us all home to the city. I tried not to let myself think what the consequences would be for all of us, and for the future of the Two Lands, if he died.