was now a mask of gold foil. With my knife-blade I carefully peeled back a sticky corner, and saw that under the gold there was no face; nothing but skull and bloody tissue and gristle. For someone had, with an exquisite and appalling skill, scalped her, front and back, and removed her face and her eyes. There still remained a vivid trace of her features in the contours of the mask, where the foil had been pressed into shape. This had been done before someone had butchered her beauty. It might help us to identify her.
Around her neck, tucked under her white linen robe, was an ankh amulet on a delicate gold chain; an exceptionally beautiful piece of jewellery bestowing protection, for this was the symbol that writes the word for Life. I carefully removed it and held the cold gold in my palm.
‘That never belonged to this girl,’ said Khety.
I looked around the plain room in which she had been discovered. He was right. It was far too valuable an item. It seemed a treasure, an heirloom perhaps, of a very wealthy family. I had an idea about who might have owned it. But if I was right, the mystery of its appearance made things very much worse.
‘She has a tattoo. Look-’ said Khety, showing me a snake, curling around her upper arm. The workmanship was crude, and cheap.
‘Her name was Neferet. She lived here alone. The landlord says she worked nights. So I think it’s safe to assume she worked in the clubs. Or the brothels.’
I gazed at the lovely body. Why, once again, were there no signs of violence or struggle? No one could endure such agony without struggling, biting and gnawing at their own tongue and lips, as they strained for life against the bonds that must have tied wrists and ankles. But there was nothing. It was as if all this had been accomplished in a dream. I moved around the room, looking for clues, but could see nothing. As I walked back to the bare couch, sunlight filtered in through the narrow window, and across the girl’s body. And it was only then that I noticed, on the shelf next to the sleeping couch, caught in the angle of the strong, elongated morning light, the faintest trace of a circle in the dust; the mark of a cup that had been placed there, and was now gone.
A ghost cup; a cup of dreams. I thought back to my first instinct, that the killer of the lame boy had administered the juice of the poppy, or some other potent narcotic, to his victim to placate him while he undertook his gruesome labour. The secret behind the Two Lands in our time-behind its great new buildings and temples, its powerful conquests, and its glittering promises of wealth and success to the luckiest of those who come here to labour and serve and somehow survive-is that the grinding miseries, daily sufferings and endless banalities of life are mitigated, for more and more people, by the delusions of narcotics. Once wine was the means to artificial happiness; now things are much more sophisticated, and what was one of the great secrets of medicine has become the only bliss many find in this life. That this euphoria is an illusion is irrelevant, at least until its effects wear off, leaving the user abandoned to the same miseries that motivated the flight from reality. The children of elite families now regularly relieve the tensions and so-called pressures of their affluent, meaningless lives in this way. And others, who have for one reason or another fallen through the support network of their families, find themselves soon descending the staircase of shadows to the underworld, where people sell the last things they possess-their bodies and their souls-for an instant of bliss.
In these days, trade of all kinds has extended its routes and tracks into the furthest and strangest parts of the world. So along with the essentials of the kingdom’s economic power-timber, stone, ores, gold, labour-the new luxury commodities make their way here, by land and sea and river: rare animal skins, live clever monkeys, giraffes, gold trinkets, textiles, subtle new perfumes…the endless parade of fashionable and desirable objects. And also, of course, the secret things; the merchandise of dreams.
Physicians and priests have always used the potent parts of certain plants; some, like the poppy, are so powerful that just a few distilled drops in a beaker of water are sufficient to lull the senses of the patient before an exceptionally painful procedure is enacted, such as amputation. I remember one indication of this is that the pupils dilate. I know this because the prostitutes of the night city magnify their allure by taking the same thing to brighten their jaded, weary eyes. But the dosage is a delicate matter-too much and the eyes bloom in the strange, unreal light of the drug, only to close for ever in death.
I explained my idea to Khety.
‘But why doesn’t the killer just kill his victim with the drug, and then do his rearranging of the furniture?’ he asked.
It was a good question.
‘It seems to matter to the killer that the “work” is conducted on a living body,’ I replied. ‘It’s at the heart of his obsession. His fetish…’
‘I hate that word,’ said Khety, unnecessarily. ‘It makes my skin crawl…’
‘We need to identify where this girl worked,’ I said.
‘The kids that end up in the city, doing what she did, have come from everywhere and nowhere. They change their names. They have no families. And they can’t ever leave.’
‘Go to the clubs and the brothels. See if you can trace her. Someone will have missed her.’
I offered him the gold face.
He nodded. ‘And what about you?’
‘I need you to do that while I follow up something else.’
He looked at me, half-amused.
‘Anyone would think you didn’t like me any more.’
‘I’ve never liked you.’
He grinned.
‘There’s something you’re not telling me…’
‘That’s an accurate deduction. Our long years together have not been wasted.’
‘So why don’t you trust me?’
I touched my ear to confirm my silence, and gestured towards Thoth.
‘Ask him. He knows everything.’
The baboon stared back at both of us with his very straight face.
We went to a quiet inn, away from the busy part of the city. It was the middle of the morning, and everyone was at work, so the place was deserted. We sat down on benches at the back to drink our beer and eat the dish of almonds I had ordered from the silent but vigilant owner, leaning close to each other so that we might not be overheard. I told him everything that had happened the night and the day before. About the mysterious Khay, and Ankhesenamun, and the carving.
He listened carefully, but said nothing, beyond asking for more information about what the palace was like. This was unusual. Normally, Khety has a rational opinion on everything. We have known each other for many years. I made sure he was appointed a Medjay officer in Thebes, to get him and his wife out of Akhetaten. Ever since then, he has been my assistant.
‘Why haven’t you spoken?’
‘I’m thinking.’
He drank deeply from his beer, as if thinking was thirsty work.
‘That family is nothing but trouble,’ he decided, eventually.
‘And I should feel grateful for this jewel of wisdom?’
He grinned.
‘What I mean is: you shouldn’t get involved. It’s bad news.’
‘That’s what my wife said. But what do you propose I do? Leave the girl to her fate?’
‘You don’t know what her fate is. And she’s not a girl, she’s the Queen. You can’t be responsible for everyone. You’ve got your own family to think about.’
I felt obscurely annoyed.
He watched me.
‘But you do feel responsible, don’t you?’
I shrugged, drained my beer cup, and rose to leave. Thoth was already straining at his leash.
We walked out into the heat and light, Khety trotting to keep up with me.
‘Where are you going now?’ he said, as we dodged the crowds.
‘I’m going to see my friend Nakht. And you are going to find out everything you can about the disappearance of that girl. You know where to start looking. Make sure you come and find me later.’
