and the standards of affluence which many of us now enjoy-’
‘Blah blah blah,’ mocked the poet.
‘…not all the changes have been for the better,’ agreed another.
‘I am against change. It is overrated. It improves nothing,’ said Hor.
‘Come now, that is an absurd opinion, and goes against all sense. It is merely a sign of age, for as we get older, so we believe the world gets worse, manners decline, standards of ethics and knowledge are eroded-’ said Nakht.
‘And political life becomes more and more of a dismal farce…’ interrupted the poet, draining his cup again.
‘My father is always complaining about such things, and I try to argue with him, and find I cannot,’ I offered.
‘So let us be honest at least with each other. The great mystery is that we find ourselves ruled by men whose names we hardly know, in offices that remain inscrutable, under the governance of an old man, a megalomaniac without even a royal name, who seems to have cast his gruesome shadow over the world for as long as I can remember. Under the ambitions of the great General Horemheb, we have been engaged in a long and so-far fruitless war with our ancient enemies, when surely diplomacy might have done far more, and saved us the endless drain upon our finances. And as for the two royal children, it seems they are never to be allowed to grow up and take their rightful places at the centre of the life of the Two Lands. How has this come to pass, and how long can it continue?’
Hor had spoken the unspeakable truth; it seemed no one had the courage to answer.
‘From our point of view we are very comfortably off, and we thrive within the circumstances of our lives. There is affluence and work, and we keep our fine houses and our servants. Perhaps for us it is a fair compromise. But I imagine you witness a very different side of life?’ said a tall, elegant gentleman, bowing and introducing himself to me as Nebi, an architect.
‘Or perhaps you really do see the awful reality of things as they are, from which we, living within the charmed circle of our comfortable lives, remain defended,’ added the poet with a touch of the supercilious in his tone.
‘Why don’t you accompany me one night, and find out?’ I said. ‘I could show you the back streets and the shanties where honest but unlucky people survive on the rubbish we all throw out without thinking. And I could introduce you to some very successful career criminals, experts in viciousness and cruelty, who trade in humans as a commodity. Many of them have fine offices in the city, and beautiful wives and children set up in lovely homes in the comfort of the new suburbs. They throw lavish dinners. They invest in property. But their riches are made in blood. I can show you the reality of this city, if that is what you are looking for.’
The poet put his stubby hands to his forehead theatrically.
‘You are right. I leave reality to you. I cannot bear too much of it-who can? I admit I am a coward. Blood makes me faint, I hate the look of poor people and their awful clothes, and if someone even knocks into me accidentally in the street I shriek in fear I am about to be robbed and beaten. No, I prefer to stay within the safe, well-behaved company of words and scrolls in my comfortable library.’
‘Even words are not perhaps safe in these times,’ said another man, standing at the back, in the best part of the awning’s shade. ‘Remember we are in the presence of a Medjay officer. The Medjay itself is part of the reality of this city. It is not immune from the corruption and decadence of which we speak.’ And he looked at me coolly.
‘Ah. Sobek. I wondered whether you would join us,’ said Nakht.
The man he addressed was of late middle age, with short grey hair untouched by dye. He had striking grey- blue eyes, and a touch of anger at the world written into his features. We bowed to each other.
‘I do not think speech is a crime,’ I said carefully. ‘Although others might disagree.’
‘Indeed. So crime depends on its enactment, not its intention or articulation?’ he asked.
The others glanced at each other.
‘Yes, it does. Otherwise we would all be criminals, and all behind bars.’
Sobek nodded thoughtfully.
‘Perhaps it is the human imagination that is the monster,’ he said. ‘I believe no animal suffers from the torments of the imagination. Only man…’
‘The imagination is capable of enacting the very best in us, and the very worst,’ agreed Hor, ‘and I know what mine would like to do to some people.’
‘Your verse is torment enough,’ quipped the architect.
‘And that is why civilized life, morality, ethics and so on, matter. We are half-enlightened, and half- monstrous,’ said Nakht assertively. ‘We must build our civility upon reason and mutual benefit.’
Sobek raised his cup.
‘I salute your reason. I wish it every success.’
He was interrupted by a roar from below in the streets. Nakht clapped his hands, and shouted:
‘The moment has come!’
There was a general rush towards the parapet of the terrace, and the men dispersed to compete for the best vantage points.
Sekhmet appeared at my side.
‘Father, father, come or you will miss everything!’
And she dragged me away. Another vast cheer rolled like thunder all along the Way below us, and on and on through the crowds packed into the heart of the city. We had a perfect view of the open area before the temple walls.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Thuyu.
‘Inside the temple the King and Queen are waiting for the right moment to appear and to welcome the Gods,’ said Nakht.
‘And what’s inside the temple?’
‘A mystery within a mystery within a mystery,’ he said.
She squinted at him, annoyed.
‘That doesn’t mean anything at all,’ she commented, correctly enough.
He smiled.
‘Inside there is an extraordinary new construction, the Colonnade Hall. It has just been completed after many years of labour. There is nothing else like it upon the earth. Its columns reach to the sky, and they are all carved and painted with wonderful images of the King making offerings; and the roof is painted with uncountable gold stars around the Goddess Nut. Beyond is the vast Sun Court, surrounded by many tall, slender columns. And beyond that you must pass through portal after portal, as the floors get higher, and the ceilings lower, and the shadows darker and darker-and these all lead to the heart of everything: the closed shrine of the God, where he is woken at dawn, and fed with the finest of foods, and clothed in the best of linens, and put back to sleep at night. But only a very few priests, and the King himself, are allowed to enter there, and no one who does can ever speak of what he has witnessed. And
‘I want to see it.’ She grinned her clever grin.
‘You never will,’ said Sekhmet suddenly. ‘You’re just a girl.’
Nakht was just thinking about how to respond to that when trumpets blasted out a deafening fanfare; at this signal the ranks of priests knelt down as one in the perfect dust, and the soldiers stood tightly to attention, their spearheads and arrowheads glittering in the unforgiving sun. Then, from out of the shadows of the vast enclosure wall, two small figures appeared, seated upon thrones carried by officials, and surrounded by men of the offices and their assistants. The moment they moved from the shadows to the sun, their robes and high crowns caught the powerful light, and they shone dazzlingly bright. An absolute hush descended upon the city. Even the birds were silenced. The most important moment of the festival’s ritual had commenced.
But nothing happened for a few moments, as if they were too early for a party, and no one had quite thought what to do to keep them entertained. The royal sunshade holders produced sunshades and protected the royal figures within circles of shade. Then a roar up ahead announced the God in his gold shrine, borne on the shoulders of his bearers, as the procession slowly and laboriously turned the corner, and appeared in a flash of light. The royal figures waited, seated like dolls, costumed, stiff and small.
Preceded by high-ranking priests chanting prayers and spells, surrounded by acrobats and musicians, and
