The dog moved forward to sniff at the head. Mahu uttered a sharp command and it returned obediently, still panting, to its master’s feet.
Mahu looked at Khety, Tjenry and me, daring us to speak. My mind was racing like a crazed dog, driven on by fear. Suddenly a new thought flashed into my head.
‘This may not be the Queen,’ I said.
Mahu stared at me. ‘Explain that.’ He sounded nasty.
‘The body seems to be that of the Queen, but the face is destroyed. Our faces are our identities. Without one, how do we know for certain who is who?’
‘She is wearing royal clothes. That is her hair, that is her figure.’
There was tension in Mahu’s voice. Did he prefer her dead? Or did he just not want to be proved wrong by me?
‘Certainly those are her clothes. Yes, it seems to be her. Nevertheless, I need to examine the body and conduct a full investigation in order to confirm the identification.’
Mahu considered me, his gold eyes transfixed on mine. ‘You are struggling, Rahotep, like a fly in honey. Well, you had better get to work, quickly. If you are right, which seems impossible, then there is more to this than meets the eye. If you are wrong, which seems certain, and Akhenaten, his family and the whole world mourn the loss of the Queen, you know exactly what to expect.’
We took her body, covered with a cloth, on a cart to a private chamber of purification, in conditions of absolute secrecy. It was the coldest room that could be found. Its limestone walls were built into the earth and gave off a ghostly chill. The candle flames shivered silently in the sconces, giving light without heat. I found linen bandages stored in a cupboard; jars of dry natron, cedar oil and palm wine stood on shelves; iron hooks for removing brains, incision knives and small hatchets hung beneath. Along another wall were ranged canopic jars for organs, their lids decorated with images of the Sons of Horus. Along a third wall, propped up in a line like an identity parade, was a variety of rich men’s coffins decorated in gold and lapis, and above them shelves of mummy masks. And when I opened boxes I found, unusually, rank upon rank of glass eyes staring up at me, awaiting the sockets of the newly dead to allow them a vision of the gods.
There was a sudden commotion at the door: the Overseer of the Mysteries was demanding admittance to his office. When he saw Mahu he shut up instantly, and after a word from Tjenry he backed out, apologizing as he went. Mahu then turned to us. ‘There are guards outside. I want you to report to me within one hour.’ And he went, taking some of the room’s darkness and chill with him.
I turned to the body of the woman on the wooden embalmer’s table. The flies had moved on to other, richer feasts, and the ruins of her face-black and crimson and ochre, the eyes gone, the brow and nose shattered, the lips and mouth smashed-remained clear. In a few spots the brain itself was exposed. I examined the features of the injuries. Her jaw and forehead still bore the rough imprints and indentations of something like a large stone, but there seemed to be no other mortal injuries. So that was how she died. She would have seen her own death coming. A brutal and not especially quick ending.
I quickly poured a sufficient quantity of natron powder mixed with acid over the face, in order to eat away the ruined flesh and congealed blood and expose the bone structure and any remaining skin. While the natron did its work, I turned to Tjenry, who was staring at the corpse with a young person’s fascination.
‘What would we do without this powder? It is found on the shores of ancient lakes, and the wadis at Natrun and Elbak are the finest sources. It cleanses our skins and brightens our teeth and breath, yet it also makes glass possible. Is it not interesting how something may look like nothing but may have many powers?’
Tjenry was still looking uncertain about all these obviously new experiences. He did not seem interested in a discussion of the virtues of natron.
‘What a mess. Do you really think it’s not her?’
‘That remains to be seen. Indeed it seems to be, but there are many possibilities.’
‘But how will you know?’
‘By looking at what is there.’
We began at her feet. Her sandals were leather and gold. The soles of her feet were not cracked, and the skin was soft and clean. A woman of leisure. The bones of the ankles were neatly turned. Her toenails were painted red, but scuffed and scratched. There were dry smears of something on the sides of her feet.
‘Look.’
Tjenry moved his face closer to the foot.
‘What do you see?’
‘The nails are carefully manicured.’
‘But?’
‘But they are scuffed. The varnish here is marked. And I see here, on the outside of the little toes, scratches, and traces of blood and dust.’
‘Better. And from this we deduce what?’
‘A struggle.’
‘Yes, a struggle. This woman was dragged along against her will. But this we could anticipate. See among the toes? What do we find?’
I scraped between the big toe and its neighbour, and into my hand fell not only traces of sand but also a tiny deposit of darker dust: dried river mud. I moved to her hands. They too bore the marks of conflict: bruises to the knuckles, damaged nails and grazed skin. I examined under the nails. More mud. Perhaps the killers had ferried her across or along the river, in which case the river mud might be accounted for as they forced her, still alive, from the boat. But there was something else. With tweezers I drew from between the fingers clenched in death a long auburn hair. Strange. This woman’s hair was black. Whose hair was this? Was it a woman’s or a man’s? The length told me nothing. I held it up to the lamplight. It appeared to be undyed and from a living head, not a wig. I sniffed it, and believed I caught the faintest trace of a subtle perfume, rather than any beeswax setting lotion.
I moved up to the torso and was about to begin to examine the clothing when the door slammed open and to my alarm Akhenaten himself entered. Khety, Tjenry and I dropped to the floor, faces down, by the table. I heard him move across the room and approach the body. This was a disaster. I still had none of the clues, those tiny shards of hope I needed in order to prove my instinct true. I desperately needed to examine the body and confirm my findings before informing Akhenaten. Now it must look as if I was working behind his back, to cover up the murder and the body of the Queen, and my own incompetence and failure. I swore at myself, wishing I had never come, never left Thebes. But here I was, trapped by my own ambition and curiosity.
I quickly glanced up. He was standing beside the body, his hands slowly moving across it, his eyes wide in rapt concentration, breathing with deep, uneven gasps as if in pain, as if trying to sense the spirit still hovering, as if he would try to raise her from the dead. He seemed mesmerized by the catastrophe of her face, as if he had never thought beauty were skin deep, as if he could not believe his Queen was mortal. It seemed to me in that moment that he loved her.
I thought: how ironic we should meet our fates in an embalmers’ workshop. All we needed to do was step quietly into a coffin, close the lid, and wait for death.
Finally he seemed able to speak. ‘Who did this?’
I had to say it. ‘Lord, I do not know.’
He nodded sympathetically, as if I were a child in school who had failed to answer a simple question. He continued with a quietness that was more menacing than any shout. ‘Did you hope to keep this secret from me until you had worked out a story to defend your failure to answer this simple question?’
‘No, Lord.’
‘Do not disagree with me.’
‘It is the question I am trying to answer, Lord. It is not a simple question. And forgive me for saying so at this time, but there is another question.’
His glare was intense with contempt. ‘What other question could there be now? She is dead!’
‘The question is whether this is indeed the Queen.’
There followed a nasty silence. Akhenaten’s voice, when he spoke, was a marvel of restrained sarcasm. ‘These are her clothes. Her hair. Her jewellery. Her scent is still on the body.’
It was time to grasp the slender reed of chance.
