Nick Drake - Nefertiti

He grinned. ‘It’s a metaphysical mystery! I suppose a disappearance is just that. The questions are harder: why, not how.’

‘There are reasons for everything, I believe. I just can’t quite get to them. I have bits and pieces but I can’t make out the connections yet. And this city doesn’t help. It’s intricate and strange, and everyone’s playing a role so it’s all charged up, but there’s something about it I just don’t like.’

He laughed. ‘You have to go behind the appearances. It looks impressive, but believe me, behind these magnificent facades it’s the same old story: men who would sell their own children for power, and women who have the hearts of rats.’

We rattled across a temporary bridge of planks laid across a spreading stream.

‘What can you tell me about Mahu?’

Thutmosis glanced at me. ‘He has great influence in the city and much trust within the royal family. He is called The Dog. His loyalty is famous. And so is his wrath against those who fail it in any way.’

‘So I believe.’

He looked at me carefully. ‘I stick to my art. Politics and the like…a dirty business.’

‘Isn’t it the air you have to breathe here?’

‘True. But I try not to breathe too deeply. Or I cover my nose.’

We rode in silence for a while, splashing through shallow streams that crossed the way, and entered the central city, all so neat in its arrangement, its ordered patterning. He dropped me at the crossroads. I had one more question for him.

‘Would it be possible for a woman who looked very much like the Queen to have a place in the royal household, or in the city? Where would such a girl come from?’

‘I’ve never heard of such a thing, but the only place such a woman could be kept in secret, if she were part of the city, would be the Harem. Perhaps you should look into it.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Can’t say, I’m afraid.’

He was about to move off, but a last thought stopped him. ‘This city, this splendid and enlightened new world, this glorious future. It all looks glorious, but it’s built on sand. Everyone’s either determined or forced to believe in it to make it possible. But without her, without Nefertiti, it’s not believable. It’s not real. It won’t work. It’ll all fall down. She’s like the Great River: she’s what makes the city live. Without her we’re back in the desert. Whoever took her knows this.’ Then, with a practised flick of the reins, he rode off, his chariot flashing in the golden light.

I stood at the crossroads, the city like a strange sundial of bold light and powerful darkness as the buildings set their perfect angled shadows to Ra’s ordered hours. The afternoon was changing into evening. The image of Nefertiti’s face was strong now in my imagination. I held the scarab in my palm and looked at it again. The female Ra. I squinted at it, dazzling in the light, and offered a prayer of my own to the strange god of the sun whose swift journeys in his chariot were measuring out the little time I had left.

The reception was held by Ramose, Vizier to Akhenaten. Those considered influential and important enough to be invited from across the Empire had travelled for many weeks, by land and water, to make sure of their place and accommodations in the new city. Most had not made the mistake of leaving it too late to set out on their long journeys, fraught, even in our times, with danger and uncertainty. I could well imagine the preparations of the previous months: the slow exchange of letters and invitations, the negotiations about retinues and accommodations, the exquisite problems of hierarchy and status.

No-one who was anyone-and in this city being ‘someone’ seemed to be all that mattered-arrived on foot at the reception. And this, Khety told me, included ourselves, so we arrived in the ramshackle chariot. Its poor quality and condition was even more marked by the shameful contrast with the magnificent vehicles that thronged the packed thoroughfares and crowded ways, all of which made our progress excruciatingly slow; and as we neared the house we became trapped in a foul-mannered and angry logjam of chariots, sedan chairs and travelling thrones. Very important people, officials, servants and slaves shouted insults, commands and demands; everyone shoved for superiority. The noise, the heat, the sheer fury of it all was astonishing. The porters, verbally abused by their passengers, wrestled to free the poles of their carriages from those of competing chairs while also desperately trying not to risk a scratch on the immaculately buffed surfaces of their expensive vehicles. Horses whinnied as they struggled in their ebony traps; under their elaborate trappings they sweated, and their eyes swivelled, alarmed. Several wore the white-feathered plumes of high office, and some of the big men they were carrying stared malevolently out from their elevated chairs over the crowd. I had no idea who was who, and in the crazy jostling of the travelling lamps, faces and profiles appeared and vanished again before I could get a good look. It was like being at sea in an angry storm of fashion and vanity.

It seemed the other half of the city had also turned out to gaze at the silly, extravagant spectacle: men, women and children gawked like fools across the Royal Road from where they stood packed tightly in a great swelling crowd held back behind a single security rope, calling out prayers and requests, pointing out important figures, eating sugar cakes and swigging from beer jugs as if this was a show-which, clearly, it was. The elite in all their fashions, parading for their audience.

Finally our chariot drew up at, or rather was shoved up to, the raised platform. Khety shrugged. ‘Shall we?’ So we stepped out onto the carpeted reception area, lit by great hammered bowls of flaming oil. I was glad I had brought with me a spare pair of smart sandals and at least one decent change of clothes, but even the general level of refinery was extraordinary.

‘I feel conspicuously unfashionable, Khety.’

‘You look fine, sir.’

‘I want to meet the key players. Make sure you introduce me. Especially Ramose.’

A worried look passed over his face. ‘I can’t introduce you to him. It wouldn’t be appropriate.’

I would walk up to him myself then.

We passed through the stampede of the guard gate, our names having been checked, and emerged into a great colonnaded reception hall, open to the moon and the stars, crowded not only with thousands of people but also with great statues of Akhenaten and Nefertiti making offerings. Their icons looked down seemingly benevolently upon this society gathered in their honour. The noise was incredible. Musicians were mangling some sophisticated setting and competing with the roar of people trying to make themselves heard. Servants passed with sly hostility through the tangled thickets of elbows and shoulders and faces, offering complicated drinks and tiny refined dishes on trays. Khety snapped his fingers, but none of the servants took much notice, pretending not to have heard. Then a servant girl lilted past, her dress as insubstantial as smoke, and I grabbed two drinks in exchange for a brief smile. I handed one to Khety.

We were sipping these much too fast when an impressively rotund, competent-looking person with a large curious head, like a parrot pretending to be an eagle, emerged from the sea of figures, approached and offered a formal greeting. Khety stood back deferentially.

‘I am Parennefer.’ He smiled.

I smiled back. ‘Rahotep.’

‘Welcome to the Great City of Akhetaten. I know who you are. I am Overseer of all the Works in the House of Akhenaten. And I am delighted to meet you. I was informed of your presence here tonight, and I want to offer my assistance.’