Egypt

the streets. I see the world turned upside down.’

The audience seemed spellbound by his prophecy. I glanced at Nakht, who was observing the poet. We exchanged a slight rise of the eyebrows at the oracular melodrama of the performance. But Hor was serious.

‘I have you all amazed. But Horemheb is famous for his cruelties and his passion for revenge. I heard a story, from the mouth of one who was there, that, once, the general ordered a captive Hittite commander to be boiled alive before him, for his entertainment … while he ate his dinner.’

There were cries of revulsion among the group. More guests had gathered to listen, with their goblets and trays. But at this point, Nakht intervened.

‘Come now, friend. Your poetic imagination is a great gift, but as a prophet perhaps you relish your visions of doom too greatly. The future is not so sure. Nor is it necessarily so bleak. No oracle can decide for certain what will happen. Indeed, we have reasons for imagining a different future altogether.’

‘Such as? The ascension of Horemheb bringing “order” and “a return to the old values” and so on…?’ said Hor, sarcastically.

‘His ascension would, in any case, be entirely illegitimate: he has not one drop of royal blood in him. Even Ay himself could claim a bloodline association with the royal family, however debatable. But Horemheb has simply married his way into the family, driven his poor first wife madly to her death, and then made the Queen, last of the true dynasty, into his sworn enemy,’ said Nakht.

He rose, and walked among the little gathering. ‘Life, prosperity, health to the Queen,’ he intoned loyally, to appreciative murmurs from most of those present. And then he continued. ‘Friends, is Horemheb truly so powerful? Has he no opposition? Yes, he is General of the army of the Two Lands of Egypt; but do we, the leading men of Thebes, have no faith in our own power and authority? Do intellect and morality count for nothing in the way the future unfolds? Does Amun, the God of our great city, and of the royal family itself, have no power to save us? Can we not save ourselves?’

There was a murmur of support for Nakht’s speech from the guests. But only Hor spoke what was on everyone’s mind.

‘We would not be in this position at all if King Tutankhamun had not died in such tragic circumstances. He would have ruled, perhaps gloriously. There would have been heirs. The empire might have been great again. A new king, son of kings, could have emerged, heralding a bright future. Instead of which…’

He held up his squat hands, with their many gold rings, and shrugged helplessly.

‘The King’s death was an accident. No one could have foreseen it, or prevented it,’ replied Nakht, in a manner that warned everyone from contradicting him, or from saying anything further.

Only one person spoke up: ‘It is true, there is a crisis in this land. Outside this bubble of affluence and illusion there is desperation. Poverty, cruelty and injustice have done their work on the people; corruption has replaced justice for the poor, and contempt has replaced respect for dignity, labour and integrity. Greed is our king, and corruption is his servant.’

Everyone turned in astonishment to stare at me, because the angry, bitter voice was mine. Nakht stared at me with a remarkably unfriendly detachment. Everyone else clearly thought I was mad and would be instantly dismissed; a servant dares to speak! But someone was slowly clapping. It was Hor.

‘I remember you, sir; you are that Medjay Seeker of Mysteries who used to write poetry in his innocent youth.’

‘I am Rahotep,’ I replied.

‘There is truth in what you say. Truth is a dangerous muse. One dies for the truth.’

He plucked a silver goblet of wine from a tray, and thrust it into my hand.

‘To the truth! And much good it may do us,’ he cried sarcastically, and drank the toast. Then he nodded at me, and walked away, quickly followed by the other guests.

‘To the truth,’ I muttered, and drank from the goblet. I was in for another shock. The wine was superbly rich, with a dark, melancholy beauty. Such were the pleasures of wealth.

When I looked up I saw Nakht was staring oddly at me, but then he turned his back and began to talk to another guest.

3

I should have hurried home through the dark streets, with the bag of leftovers for the family. At the end of the night, Nakht had pointedly said nothing about my outburst. As he handed me my small payment of gold, and the parcel of food and wine, he simply ordered me to accompany him to an important meeting, tomorrow, at noon, in a tone that would brook no discussion. I was about to try to apologize, in my clumsy fashion, but he bade me a brief goodnight, and swiftly shut the door.

The evening had left me in a foul temper. The last thing I needed was to vent my anger on my wife and children. So, taking Thoth by the leash, I headed to a backstreet tavern, an old haunt where I went when I wanted to think, undisturbed. I ordered a small jug of wine, and chose a rickety stool in the corner, where the shadows could keep me company, and no one would approach me. Thoth settled down by my feet. In any case, by this late hour the place was emptying out; the only other drinkers were workmen and labourers. Their exhausted faces looked drawn in the guttering light from the oil lamps; they gripped their drinking bowls with work-damaged hands twisted like claws to the habits of their labours. When the wine arrived in its jug, it tasted exactly how I felt: cheap, crude and bitter.

I took the papyrus out, unfolded it, and pondered the black star. All gangs have their own signs and symbols. They define their identity, and differentiate themselves from their rivals, by gestures, articles of clothing, and codes of language and behaviour-nicknames, complicated handshakes, ‘knock three times’ types of things. One gang identified themselves by leaving a crisscross slashed across the faces of their victims. Probably this black star was just another such sign, made up for effect. But as I sat there in the shadows with my cheap wine, I couldn’t help feeling it suggested something darker and stranger. I told myself to get a grip. I was giving it too much credence; this was almost certainly nothing more than the work of a lunatic with a taste for fancy symbolism.

Suddenly I realized someone was watching me.

‘What have you got there?’

It was my old associate, Khety. We had worked together for years, he as my assistant, until promotion had offered him other avenues of advancement, and my unofficial demotion made it necessary for him to move on without me. I’d watched him rise rapidly through the ranks. A strange, slightly uncomfortable distance had grown up between us that neither had attempted to cross for some time. And yet now, suddenly, here he was. He still looked strikingly young-his hair still black, his open face lively, and from the look of him he was still as fit and lithe as a hunting dog.

‘Just looking at you makes me feel old.’

He grinned.

‘Cheerful as ever,’ he replied.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said.

‘I was just passing,’ he said.

‘A likely story…’

He let Thoth sniff his hand, and then stroked his head.

I pushed a stool at him, and poured him some wine. He drank, grimaced, but said nothing, just gazed into the bitter wine, as if it told him everything he needed to know.

‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have ordered something classier,’ I said.

He gazed at me. ‘It’s a disgrace.’

‘I know…’ I nodded in agreement, and refilled my bowl with more bad wine.

‘I mean you-you look as miserable as a mule.’

‘You’re in a good mood, obviously.’

He nodded, and nonchalantly walked over to the landlord. He returned with another jug of wine, and poured us fresh bowls. It was the best the place could offer.

‘You haven’t turned up here just to flatter me in my self-pity,’ I said.