great stacks of precious timber and small mountains of minerals, stone and grain. Thousands of people crowded the long paved ways that ran by the Great River. Fishermen stopped to gaze up at the splendour of the royal ship, their gathered nets dripping in their arms, their catches still twisting and thrashing, silver and gold, in the bottom of the small boats. Dusty workers stared from the supply boats as they stood knee-deep in huge quantities of grain, or on slabs of roughly quarried stone. Children held up by their parents waved from crowded ferries. Onlookers, drawn by the noise, appeared from their workshops and storerooms and shops.
Tutankhamun appeared at the curtain of his apartment. He gestured to me to join him. He was nervously adjusting his costume. He was dressed in his white royal robes, and wearing the Double Crown.
‘Do I look well?’ he asked, almost shyly. ‘I must look well. It is many years since I last visited Memphis. And also time has passed since I met Horemheb. He must see how I have changed. I am no longer the boy under his tutelage. I am King.’
‘Lord, you are unmistakably the King.’
He nodded, satisfied, and then, like a great actor, he seemed to centre himself before he stepped into the sunlight, his face beneath the crowns assuming the absolute conviction it had lacked only moments before. Something about the intensity of the moment, and its demands, brought out the best in him. He thrived on an audience. This would surely be his biggest yet. The handler passed the King his young lion, on its leash, and then he stepped up and forward into the light of Ra to a roar of acclaim. I watched as he adopted the ritual posture of power and victory. As if on cue, the young lion roared. The crowd, who could not see the way the beast was prodded to his heroic roar by a spear’s sharp point applied by his diligent keeper, called out an even greater enthusiastic response, as if it were now not many individuals, but one great beast.
The spectacle that greeted us upon the quayside was a carefully orchestrated and deliberately overwhelming display of the military might of this capital. As far as the eye could see, stretching back in countless perfectly drilled lines, division after division of soldiers, each one named after the patron God of the district from which it drew its conscripts and officers, paraded in the shimmering arena. Between them were thousands of prisoners of war, manacled and roped together by the neck, together with their women and children-Libyans in cloaks with their long side-locks and goatees, Nubians in their kilts, and Syrians with their long pointed beards, all forced into the posture of submission. Hundreds of fine horses-booty from the wars-danced on their elegant hooves. Envoys from each subjugated state fell to their knees, pleading for clemency, for the breath of life for their people.
And there, at the centre of everything, was a single figure, standing in the sun beside an empty throne, as if all of this display belonged to him. Horemheb, General of the Armies of the Two Lands. I knew him from his ramrod posture as he waited, still as a dark statue.
Tutankhamun took his time, like a god, keeping everyone waiting while he continued to enjoy the acclaim of the multitude; meanwhile the old ambassadors were tottering in the heat, the crowds were gasping for the water- and fruit-sellers, the city officials were sweating in their regalia. And then finally, accompanied by Simut and a phalanx of royal guards, he deigned to descend the gangplank. The crowds renewed their cries of acclaim and loyalty, and the dignitaries made ritual gestures of respect and homage. For his part the King made absolutely no sign of recognition or response, as if all of this pageant was somehow insubstantial and unimportant to him.
On a quiet signal from Simut, the guards fanned out around the King, organized as dancers, their arms and bows presented, as he stepped down on to the hot stones of the city. Simut and I scanned the crowds and the rooftops for any signs of trouble. Horemheb waited for the right moment; then he respectfully offered the throne to the King. But his every arrogant gesture made the King seem the less powerful man. Something about the cold expression on Horemheb’s face even seemed to keep the flies away. He turned to the silent arena. An obedient silence fell. He shouted to every one of the thousands of men present.
‘I speak to his majesty, Tutankhamun, Lord of the Two Lands. I bring chiefs of every foreign territory to beg life from him. These vile foreigners who do not know the Two Lands, I lay them beneath his feet for ever and eternally. From the furthest reaches of Nubia to the most distant regions of Asia, all are under the command of his great hand.’
Then Horemheb carefully set his knee to the ground, bowed his sleek head with arrogant humility, and waited for the King to acknowledge his formulaic words. The moments dripped by like the water in a clock, as Tutankhamun left him to stoop in public deference for as long as possible. I was impressed. The King was taking command of the occasion. The crowd remained hushed, alert to this consummate confrontation played out in the language of appearance and protocol. Finally, judging the moment precisely, the King laid a gift of five magnificent gold collars around the general’s neck. But he managed to make them look like a burden of responsibility, as much as a gift of respect. Then he raised the general, and embraced him.
The King moved forward, to accept the greetings and obeisance of the other officials as necessary. Finally he ascended the throne on the dais, under the canopy that gave some relief from the burning heat of the sun on the stones. At a command from Horemheb, every division and every group of war prisoners was then paraded before him, accompanied by trumpets and drums. It took hours. But the King maintained his rigid posture, and his distant gaze, even though the sweat was running from under the crowns, and dampening his tunic.
We travelled by chariot into the central city. Simut and I went first, ahead of Tutankhamun, who was flanked by his running guards, their weapons flashing in the high sunlight. I noticed the buildings and headquarters here were like those in Thebes, if far greater in number: the town houses were built upwards for lack of space, and down side passages were the humbler dwellings of those who laboured in the services of the army, the central institution of this city; single rooms which were workroom, stable and home in one, opened directly on to the messy streets. The royal roads and the paved surfaces of the sacred ways, which were lined with sphinxes, obelisks and chapels, were kept clear of onlookers, and so we travelled quickly towards the Palace of Memphis. Over the harsh noise of the wheels on the rutted paving stones, Simut pointed out the famous sights: to the north, the vast old mud-brick construction of the old Citadel, the White Walls, which gave their name to the district, and the Great Temple of Ptah to the south, with its own great enclosure wall. A temple canal ran south all the way to the outlying temple district of the Goddess Hathor. Other canals flashed into view as we passed, linking the river and the port to the central city.
‘There are at least forty-five different cults in the city, and each has its own temple,’ he shouted, proudly. ‘And out to the west is the Temple of Anubis.’ I imagined the embalmers, the coffin-makers, the makers of masks and amulets, and the writers of the Books of the Dead, all the specialized craftsmen who clustered into such a quarter to conduct the complex business of that powerful God, Guardian of the Necropolis and of the Tombs against evildoers. But there would be no time for tours of curiosity.
Simut was eager we should arrive ahead of the King; huge crowds had already gathered in the tight spaces of the passageways and streets, to catch a glimpse of his arrival at the great Palace of Memphis, but they were not allowed near the open area in front of the palace gate towers. Nevertheless this was a security nightmare, for it was packed with foreign and local dignitaries and officials and elite men. Simut’s advance guard were swiftly ready; silently and efficiently taking up positions and peremptorily ordering people out of the way to create a path of safety and security for the King. They knew exactly what they were doing, and moved as one in patterns they must have practised and performed many times before. Their brusquely immaculate behaviour left no one, even the Memphis palace guards themselves, in doubt of their authority. Royal archers followed, their great bows drawn and aimed up at the rooftops.
Then the temple trumpets sounded from the walls as the King arrived, surrounded by more guards. Their tribute, the clamour of the crowds, the bellowed orders of the commanders, were deafening; but suddenly the royal cavalcade passed from the dusty heat and light and cacophony of the streets into the cool silence of the first reception hall. At once we were all gathered in relative security. Here, yet more high officials awaited the King’s arrival. This was the first time I had seen him closely in a more social situation. Whereas in the palace he had sometimes seemed like a lost boy, now he held himself like a king: his posture upright and dignified, his elegant face calm and composed, his expression seeking no approval in anxious smiles, nor expressing his power in haughty arrogance. He had a charisma that came from his unusual looks, his youth, and his other quality that I remembered from when he was a boy: that of an old soul in a young man’s body. Even the gold walking stick which he carried everywhere became an enhancement of his personality.
Simut had warned me there had been a great deal of political pressure from General Horemheb’s office for the King to be accommodated overnight in the palace on this royal visit. But Ay’s office had insisted the King attend the necessary functions, and then return to the ship for a late departure. It was the right decision. Memphis was dangerous. The city was the heart of the administration of the Two Lands, but it was also the location of the army’s
