I turned to leave but her hand reached out before I passed through the doorway.
‘What about the children? I am sure they are miserable without their mother.’
‘Where are they?’
‘They’ve been taken to their grandmother.’
Her look of anxiety told me all I needed to know about what she thought of that arrangement.
‘I will need to talk to them all. Do you want me to carry a message when I see them?’
‘Please tell them I am here waiting at home for them.’
16
The artisans’ village lay to the east of the central city. We drove as far as we could along the track. Ra, in all his glory-far too much glory for me-beat down mercilessly from his zenith. There was no relief anywhere. All shadows had retreated into their objects. Khety raised the parasol to protect our heads, and we drove on sharing the minimal relief of the shaky little circle of shade.
Various other tracks crossed our paths, radiating out into the eastern desert, some leading to the desert altars, others to the rock tombs and the security stations. Fatigued young men stood like shadow sticks at crossing points, and I could see, from time to time, tiny figures standing sentry at the border points of the city’s shimmering territory-as much, it seemed, to keep the people in as to prevent incursions from the superstitious spirits and barbarians of the Red Land.
I pointed them out to Khety.
‘The worst job of all,’ he said. ‘They’re out there through the day with nothing more than a thin reed hut for shade. They’re also guarding the tombs being cut into the higher levels of the hills.’ He pointed up at the distant cliffs, white and red and grey, and I shaded my eyes in an attempt to see. They seemed uninhabited to me. ‘They’re working some way into the rock now. It’s actually hotter the deeper you go.’
‘How many tombs are being built?’
‘I don’t know. Many, I think. People who can afford it are putting a lot of their wealth into the projects.’
‘So they must think it’s worth the investment? They must think they’re going to stay here and be buried here?’
‘Yes, but also they need to be seen to think that.’
Such are the worries of wealth. This obsession with the dream of the afterlife sometimes strikes me as ridiculous. We will all vanish in the great light of the sun like flood water from a field, leaving nothing of ourselves but our children. And they in turn will vanish from life. I know how cynical I seem to others when I am like this. Tjenry’s death had put me in this dark frame of mind. I remembered a verse of an old poem:
It was not yet the hour of rest, and we had a little time to kill before the workers returned for their midday meal. The tension of Tjenry’s death was still deep in my bones, and I knew action was the only remedy, so I decided to look at the boundary stones along the city’s eastern edge.
Khety was reluctant. ‘Don’t you think it’s too hot to go clambering up there?’
I ignored him, took the reins, and we drove on, Khety holding the parasol over my head. After maybe fifteen minutes following the now rough track, we abandoned the chariot and walked on across the dreary land until finally we clambered up some rocks and found ourselves at the foot of a huge new boundary stone carved from the living rock, and flanked by figures of Akhenaten and Nefertiti gazing out over their new land. I was sweating heavily; the linen was drenched on my back. We each took a draught of cool water from the flask Khety had thoughtfully brought with him. Then I began to examine the inscription, and slowly read it out:
Akhetaten in its entirety belongs to my father the Aten
given life perpetually and eternally-
of the hills, uplands, marshes, new lands, basins, fresh lands, fields, waters, towns, banks, people, herds, groves
and everything that the Aten my father causes to pass into existence perpetually and eternally
‘That just about covers everything,’ Khety said, staring out from our new vantage point.
We sat down together under our little shade and looked back across the wide and shallow plain. In the far distance we could just make out the river glittering through the trees and the city baked white and dry along its lush green banks. It looked unreal, a mirage. The temple banners hung down utterly lifeless in the midday stillness. The new fields-barley, wheat, vegetables-were a mosaic of greens and yellows inlaid into the dusty black of the fertile land. On the far side of the river, beyond the cultivations of the western shore, the dazzling delusions of the Red Land shimmered. I shaded my eyes, but there was nothing to make out there.
I asked Khety, ‘Do you like it here?’
He gazed out over the landscape. ‘I’m lucky. I’ve a good position. We’re secure enough. We look after each other. And we’ve bought some land.’
‘Do you have a big family?’
‘I have a wife. We live with my father and my grandparents.’
‘But no children yet?’
‘We’re trying. But so far…’ He trailed off. ‘I need a son. If I can’t father a son, we can’t continue our family’s relationship with Mahu and the Medjay. It’s the only way we can survive. My wife believes in charms and spells. She goes to some unqualified doctor who makes her believe that a concoction of flower-distillation and bat-shit, a full moon and a few offerings is going to bring us a boy. She even says the root of the problem is me.’ He scowled and shook his head. ‘Mahu offered to recommend us to the Doctor of the Palace. Someone who really knows about these things. But we feared the indebtedness.’
I decided to meet him as an equal in this new frankness. ‘I have three girls. Tanefert, my wife, went crazy before Sekhmet was born. We were so nervous, worrying over every sign. She’s not especially superstitious, but one night I found her pissing into two containers, one with wheat, one with barley. I said, “What are you doing?” and she said, “I’m going to see which one will grow, and then we’ll know whether we’re having a boy or a girl.” Neither of them really grew, although she swore the barley was taller, so we expected a boy. Then Sekhmet arrived, yelling and beautiful and entirely herself.’
I heard a shout. Two young guards were looking up at us from below the rocks. We clambered carefully down. Both were young, maybe seventeen, both obviously bored out of their minds with nothing to do all day, every day, but throw stones, dream about sex and wait for the end of their endless shifts.
‘What are you doing up there?’
I showed them my authorizations. They squinted at them. Illiterate.
‘We’re Medjay,’ said Khety.
They backed off immediately. We walked back with them along the track to their tiny hut where they sat or slept on a reed mat. It seemed an inadequate thing next to the mighty claims of the boundary stone. They propped their weapons-two crude spears-against the door. There was a barrel of water, a jar of oil, a pile of onions and a torn but fresh barley loaf on a shelf.
They asked where I was from. When I told them I was from Thebes, one of them said, ‘One day I’m going to go there. Take my chances. I’ve heard it’s great. Things happening. Parties. Festivals. Plenty of work. Nightlife…’ The other shifted on his feet, unsure, unwilling to meet our eyes.
‘It’s a great place,’ I said. ‘But it’s hard. Watch yourself when you get there.’
‘We’re going anyway. Anything to get away from this miserable hole.’ The quieter one looked alarmed by his friend’s candour. His friend, emboldened, continued. ‘We’re going to join the new army.’
This was news to me. What new army?
‘There’s only one army,’ I said carefully. ‘The King’s army.’
