‘But appearances, Lord, may be deceptive.’
He turned to look at me, his face suddenly hungry with hope. ‘That is the first interesting thing you have said. Speak.’
‘We are all infinitely varied in terms of bodily shapes and colours and manners, but we are sometimes wrong when we think we know someone. How often does one glimpse a figure across a busy street and cry out to the school friend we have not seen for many years, only to find it is not he but someone in whom his features have been rearranged? Or the sudden flash of the eyes of a girl we once loved in the passing face of a stranger?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I am saying this is a woman who looks like the Queen, who has her height and her hair, the tones of her skin, her clothing. But without the face, the mirror where we read our knowledge of each other, only one who knew her deeply-intimately-can confirm this.’
‘I see.’
I looked down, careful not to risk damaging this delicate moment.
‘With permission, there is a way, Lord, to confirm the identification of this body as the Queen’s. But it requires personal knowledge. Private knowledge.’
He considered what I was implying. ‘If you are wrong, I will do to you what was done to her. I will strip you naked, I will cut out your tongue so you cannot call for death, I will peel off your skin, strip by strip, I will hammer your face to a pulp, and then I will have you staked out in the desert where I will watch your slow agony as the flies and the sun put you to your death.’
What could I say? I looked him in the eye, then bowed my head in acquiescence.
‘Turn away. Face the wall.’
We did so. He was opening her clothing, laying her bare. I heard the faintest shower of grains of sand cascading to the floor. Then silence. Then the sound of a jar shattering against a wall. Khety jumped. The scent of palm wine spread out quickly across the room. The next moment would decide the path of my destiny.
‘This is a great deception.’
Hope leaped up in my heart.
‘Your task is not yet done. It is hardly begun. And there is little time. Call upon what you need. Find her.’ There was a look of exultation on his face, not just relief. ‘This body is rubbish. Dispose of it.’ And with that he swept from the room.
Khety, Tjenry and I looked at each other and stood up. Tjenry put his hand to his damp brow. ‘This is too much excitement.’ He laughed a little, embarrassed by his fear.
‘How did you know that?’ said Khety, gazing at the body.
I shrugged. I did not say how little I had had to go on in gambling our lives. The body before us was beautiful, perfect even. What detail had redeemed us and proved my strange hunch right? Then I saw a little white scar like a star in daylight on the belly, where a mole, perhaps, had been removed. That was all it had taken to save us for another day. But then the questions crowded into my head. Why had someone murdered a woman who looked exactly like the Queen? Why set such a sophisticated false lead? And where was Nefertiti herself?
Out of habit, I checked through the folds of the robes. Inside, near the heart, my fingers closed on a small object. I drew it out and found in my hand an ancient amulet, worked in gold and decorated in lapis. It was a scarab. The dung beetle, symbol of regeneration, whose offspring appeared as if from nowhere in the mud. The scarab that every day pushes the sun back into the light from its night in the Otherworld. Unusually the underside was inscribed not with the name of the owner, but with three signs: Ra, the sun, a circle with a dot at its centre, then ‘t’, and then the hieroglyph of a sitting woman beside it. If I read it correctly it said: Raet. The female Ra.
I slipped the amulet into my pocket. It felt like a clue, or a sign-indeed the only one I had, apart from this faceless girl whose appalling death had in the end saved my own life. If only I could understand what was in front of me. I turned to look again at the body on the table.
‘Right, here are the key questions. Who is she? Why does she look so like the Queen? Why is she wearing the Queen’s clothing? And why has she been mutilated in such a desperate way?’
Khety and Tjenry nodded, sagely.
‘Who makes all the images of the Queen? All those strange statues?’
‘Thutmosis,’ said Khety. ‘His workshops are in the south suburb.’
‘Good. I want to interview him.’
‘Also, there is a reception this evening to honour the first of the arriving dignitaries for the Festival.’
‘Then we should attend. I hate parties, but it might be important.’
I ordered Tjenry to remain with the body and organize security. ‘Khety will relieve you later tonight.’ He gave me a jaunty salute.
Khety and I made our way out to the embarrassing, cranky chariot. Over the jarring argument of metal and stone I said, ‘Tell me more about this artist.’
‘He is famous. Not like the other image-makers. Everyone knows him. And he’s
‘And how do you find his work?’
Khety paused. ‘I think it’s very…modern.’
‘It sounds like you think that’s a bad thing.’
‘Oh no, it’s very impressive. It’s just…he shows everything. People as they are, not how they ought to be.’
‘Isn’t that better? Truer?’
‘I suppose so.’
He didn’t sound convinced.
12
The south suburb was residential. Here were substantial estates hidden behind high walls, houses with large floor areas surrounded by what seemed to be walled gardens, granaries, stables and workshops. There was space between the dwellings for privacy, although most of it was spilling over with building materials and sometimes rubbish. Over these walls one glimpsed interesting plants thriving by virtue of the wells and water channels: tamarisk, willows, miniature date palms, persea trees, fashionable pomegranate bushes with their red crowned fruits and impossibly messy honeycomb of sour pips. And flowers: sky-blue cornflowers, poppies, daisies. The buildings too spoke of great affluence: stone lintels, most inscribed with the names and titles of the owners; extensive timber pergolas with vines; large courtyards and grounds.
‘Mahu has a house in this part of the city,’ offered Khety. ‘Also the Vizier Ramose.’
‘It is where the members of the elite live?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is it always this quiet? It’s practically religious.’
‘Noise is disliked.’
The absence of human life was disconcerting, and the hush felt haunted, as if the place were a town of rich ghosts.
Khety knocked on the door of what seemed a house as substantial and silent as most of the others in the street. Eventually we heard footsteps, and an immaculate servant admitted us. Once inside, however, a hidden world of activity revealed itself. Across the courtyard, with its trees and benches surrounding a circular water-pool, came the faint chink-chink-chink of many chisels tapping away on stone. There were suggestions of activity in other rooms too: calls for help or of appreciation; someone whistling. The servant disappeared to announce us.
Eventually, a bulky figure appeared in the passageway and walked towards us. He was a big man in every direction, his round, curious face like a dish set with blue eyes and a thinning cloud of red-brown hair. He yawned as he showed us through the main house and into a secondary courtyard. Down the length of the south side was a row of little studios and workshops, all busy with figures at work, tapping, chipping and painting.
‘You keep quite a large staff, I see.’
‘It’s hard to find enough good craftsmen to fulfil the demand. I had to bring most of them down from Thebes,
