darkness.
In front of us, running north to south between the great temple cities of Karnak and the Southern Temple, the Avenue was as empty as a dry riverbed, apart from the sweepers who were working fast to clear the last specks of dust and debris so that everything would be perfect. Before the vast painted mud-brick wall of the Southern Temple, phalanxes of Theban army units and crowds of priests in white robes were massed silently in their orders. After the lively chaos of the dock, here all was regimented order and conformity. Medjay officers held back the crowds that pressed together on all sides of the open ground and on either side of the Avenue, until they faded into the shimmering blur of distance; so many people, drawn together by the dream of a propitious glimpse of the God on this Day of Days.
Nakht appeared at my side. For a moment we were alone.
‘Am I imagining it, or is the atmosphere strange?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘It never used to be so tense.’
The swallows, alone in their delight, zoomed about our heads. I discreetly produced the linen amulet, and showed it to him.
‘What can you tell me about this?’
He looked at it in surprise, and read it quickly.
‘It is a Spell for the Dead, as even you must know. But it is a very particular one. It is said to have been written by Thoth, God of Writing and Wisdom, for the great God Osiris. In order for the spell to be ritually effective, the ink must be made from myrrh. Such a thing is usually reserved only for the funerals of the very highest of the high.’
‘Such as?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘High priests. Kings. Where did you find it?’
‘On the dead body of a lame boy. He was certainly no king.’
Now it was Nakht who looked surprised.
‘When?’
‘First thing this morning,’ I replied.
He pondered these strange facts for a moment, and shook his head.
‘I cannot yet make sense of that,’ he decided.
‘Neither can I. Except that I do not believe in coincidence.’
‘Coincidence is merely a way of saying we recognize a connection between two events, but cannot discover the meaning of that connection,’ he replied, concisely.
‘Everything you say always sounds exactly right, my friend. You have the gift of turning confusion into an epigram.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, but it is a kind of tyranny with me, for I am far too neat for my own good. And life, as we know, is mostly chaos.’
I observed him as he continued to ponder the linen and its strange spell. He was thinking something he would not tell me aloud.
‘Well, it is a mystery. But come now,’ he said in his peremptory manner, ‘this is a party, and there are many people here I wish you to meet.’
He took me by the elbow and led me into the great, chattering crowd.
‘You know I can’t abide the great and the good,’ I murmured.
‘Oh don’t be such an inverted snob. There are many people here today who have remarkable interests and passions-architects, librarians, engineers, writers, musicians, and a few businessmen and financiers for good measure-for art and science also depend upon healthy investment. How is our culture to improve and grow unless we share our knowledge? And where else would a Medjay officer like you get to consort with them?’
‘You are like one of your bees, going from flower to flower, sampling the nectar of this and that…’
‘That is quite a good analogy, except that it makes me sound like a dilettante.’
‘My friend, I would never accuse you of being a dilettante, nor a dabbler, nor an amateur. You are a kind of philosopher mixed with an inward-seeking adventurer.’
He smiled, satisfied.
‘I like the sound of that. This world and the Otherworld are full of curiosities and mysteries. It would take many lifetimes to understand them all. And disappointingly, it seems to me we only have one…’
Before I could escape with grace, he introduced me to a group of middle-aged men who were conversing together under the awning. They were all affluently dressed, in linens and jewellery of finest quality. Each of them examined me curiously, like an object of strange interest that perhaps they might purchase, at a bargain price.
‘This is Rahotep, one of my oldest friends. He is a chief detective here in Thebes-he specializes in murders and mysteries! Some of us think he should have been made Head of the city Medjay at the last opportunity.’
I tried to deal with this public flattery as best I could, although I loathed it, as Nakht knew very well.
‘As I’m sure you are all aware, my dear friend’s rhetoric is famous. He can turn mud into gold.’
They nodded all at the same time, apparently delighted by this.
‘Rhetoric is a dangerous art. It is the manipulation of the difference, one might say the
‘And in our times, that distance has become the means by which power is exercised,’ said Nakht.
There followed a little awkward silence.
‘Gentlemen, this gathering is sounding almost subversive,’ I said, to lighten the moment.
‘Surely it was ever thus? Rhetoric has been a force for persuasion since man began to speak, and to convince his enemy that he was indeed his friend…’ said another of the men.
They tittered.
‘True. But how much more sophisticated it has all become now! Ay and his cronies sell us words as if they were truth. But words are treacherous and untrustworthy. I should know!’ said the blue-eyed man, ostentatiously.
Several of them laughed, raised their hands and wagged their dainty fingers at that.
‘Hor is a poet,’ explained Nakht.
‘Then you are a craftsman in the ambiguity of words. You master their hidden meanings. That is a very useful gift in these times,’ I said.
He clapped his hands in delight, and hooted. I realized he was slightly drunk.
‘True, for these are times when no one may say what he really means. Nakht, my friend, where did you find this remarkable creature? A Medjay officer who understands poetry! Whatever next, dancing soldiers?’
The company laughed harder, determined to keep the mood light and easy.
‘I’m sure Rahotep will not mind if I reveal he too wrote verse when he was younger,’ said Nakht, as if to smooth over the hairline cracks that were beginning to appear in the conversation.
‘It was very bad indeed,’ I replied. ‘And no evidence exists of it any more.’
‘But what happened, why did you give it up?’ asked the poet solicitously.
‘I don’t remember. I suppose the world took over.’
The poet turned to the company, wide-eyed with amusement.
‘“The world took over,” that is a good phrase, I may have to borrow that.’
The company nodded back, indulgently.
‘Be careful, Rahotep, I know these writers, they say “borrow” when they mean “steal.” You will soon read your words coming back to you on some privately circulated scroll of new verse,’ said one of them.
‘And it will be a vicious little satire and not a love poem, if I know Hor,’ said another.
‘Very little of what I do belongs in a poem,’ I said.
‘And that, my friend, is why it is interesting, for otherwise all is artifice, and how easily one tires of artifice,’ replied the poet, thrusting out his empty cup at a passing servant. ‘Give me the taste of truth any day,’ he continued. The girl approached, refilled our cups, and departed, taking her quiet smile and the attention of several, although not all, of the men with her. I thought how little of reality this man would know. Then the conversation resumed.
‘The world has certainly changed greatly in these last years,’ said another of the men.
‘And despite the advances in our international power, and the achievements of our great new constructions,
