Nick Drake - Nefertiti

The other overwhelming impression-and one is glad of this for the heat, even for me, is shocking-was of water, everywhere. Normally one steps from the coolness of the river into chaos and dust. Not so here. The very stones of the walkways and the walls seemed fresh and clean, shining almost as if they too were fed on water. Firstly one became aware of the sound of it, constantly running in secret, under your feet, just out of sight. Then of the greenery and freshness of the gardens, and of the new trees planted along the avenues: I saw figs, date palms, persea, carobs and pomegranates. It may be that in this impossible capital it is always the season of fruit.

I boldly plucked a fig as I passed a garden wall; the branch was hanging down before me. Looking as I did so over the wall and into the garden I saw a tiled pool, and a woman who looked up in surprise and annoyance as the branch from which I had stolen my fig brushed back into place. The water was as clear as glass, the pool tiled in complex patterns of blue and gold. Such is the work of wealth. I would have to labour ten years to build such a pleasure palace. She was nearly naked as well, her skin the colour of the gold running through the tiles and the water. Here it seems women have leisure to sit in the shade while their husbands, presumably officers or diplomats, work at the business of creating the new world.

As we moved on, in strange contrast, we passed herds of labourers struggling among the rickety supports that were placed, ramshackle, along the high walls of the buildings. It is a wonder to me that such inadequate scaffolding does not collapse on a daily basis. Great stacks of dry mud-bricks stood everywhere like miniature desert cities for populations of tiny citizens. And I noticed, hidden in some of the shadowy alleys, broken, collapsed figures, looking as though they had not stirred for some time, and might not do so again.

I was marched directly to the offices of the Medjay. New quarters. Marble and limestone cladding on the walls, fresh decorations, efficient, elegantly stylish furniture, crates of documents and who knows what unnecessary junk half-unpacked or still unopened. Is this how our power is to be accommodated now? Such a contrast with our own dark, dated and shabby offices in Thebes, and in all the other stations in the different nomes I have visited. We passed down corridor after corridor, past crowds of men going about their business, most casting brief curious glances at me, until finally we arrived at large and ornately gilded wooden doors inscribed with the insignia of power and surmounted by that new emblem of divine power the Aten sun disc, its many little hands reaching down to the adoring world.

A secretary sat to one side at a desk. Barely acknowledging me, this young officer then entered the Great Office, while I was left to stand. The guards shuffled a little, my guide looked embarrassed, and the seconds ticked by. We all listened to a bird singing in the courtyard. I cleared my throat, which had no discernible effect on anyone. The guards continued to stare at the doors. I began to feel more like a prisoner than an honoured fellow officer. Finally, the door scraped open again-the new wood has expanded in the frame; how absurd this affected display of power, and a door that sticks! — and the secretary bid me enter. I gave him a nod of the head, meant to be ironic, and walked forward into the next stage of the mystery. The doors closed behind me.

I found myself in a large, open, well-lit room. A great desk, its polished surface of some gorgeous hardwood unfamiliar to me, dominated. On it were a few objects of fine workmanship: a vase of blue lotus flowers, a statuette of Akhenaten, an alabaster decanter delicately formed in the shape of a bird rising from water, a collection of goblets, and two wooden trays. There was a strange panting sound coming from beneath the desk where a large man sat considering a document he had taken from the first tray. He ignored my presence. Mahu.

He was stocky, powerfully muscled, middle-aged. His seniority and power were evident in the manner and proportions of his body and the distinctively brutal, almost hewn shape of his head, with its strong grey hair cut close to the scalp; as well as in the elegant clothing of that body, which was rich and luxurious in every way. He wore an extraordinary collar. I had time to observe it. Six rows of rings carried a multitude of smaller gold rings strung on cords, held together by a heavy clasp decorated with a winged scarab and sun discs, and inlaid with lapis lazuli. He also wore a sleeved tunic of finest white linen and sandals.

But more interesting than all this theatrical regalia were his eyes. When he finally deigned to look up I saw that they were unusual, not in their topaz colouring, but in the way they shimmered with hunger. As cruel and apparently casual as a lion or a god. I felt he could gaze through to my very bones, to the weaknesses and vulnerabilities and destinies hidden within them. I wondered whether he ate breakfast; whether he had children, a wife, friends; whether his was a life in which such power can be harnessed to tenderness and care; or whether all humanity, all its dreams and ambitions and vanities of the heart, was so clear to him that he had no more feeling for it than a god has for the foolish mortals whom time wipes out in a moment, like a cloth across a speckled and misty mirror.

I returned his stare. He rose from the desk and moved towards me, accompanied by a slathering black dog-the source of the odd panting.

‘I see you are interested in my collar,’ he said. ‘A gift from Akhenaten. It is important to dress as one believes oneself to be, don’t you think?’

‘Your attire is magnificent,’ I acknowledged, hoping my slight irony would hit home. But his fastidious appraisal of my own rather travel-worn clothing seemed to indicate that any irony on my part would be cancelled out by the evident inadequacy, and therefore lack of self-belief, of my own appearance.

We waited a moment, considering what could be said next. I used to talk and talk; now I wait in silence for them to make the first move. But he seemed entirely undaunted by my poor ploy. As if reading my thoughts, he gestured to the couch. I had no choice but to sit while he remained standing. I still have a lot to learn about these games of power.

He stared down at me, and rubbed his chin. The silence was discomforting.

‘So, you are chosen to investigate the mystery.’

‘I have that honour.’

‘What do you suppose you have done to deserve it?’

‘I suppose nothing. Whatever gifts I have are in the service of our Lord.’ I winced as I listened to these feeble platitudes.

‘And your family…?’

‘My father was a scribe in the Office of Construction.’

My lack of elite status hung in the air between us.

‘I am prepared to learn the nature of the mystery,’ I added.

‘Akhenaten himself wishes to apprise you of its known elements. He has granted me the task to introduce you to our new world here, to assist you as may seem appropriate, and above all to keep an eye on you.’

He paused meaningfully. I waited.

‘Also we have assigned two of our best officers, one senior, one more junior but promising, to guide you as required, at all hours of the day and night. To help you to find your way around the place.’

Watchdogs running at my heels. A nuisance, and deliberately so.

‘I’m sorry to say I do not support the choice of you,’ he continued. ‘You may as well know this now. Why bring in an outside man? A man who knows nothing of how things work here? A man whose experience of the real world consists of petty thieves and whores, whose expertise extends to examining the petty and minor clues scattered about in the muck and dirt of the pathetic scenes of the murders of the low-class scum and the criminal? A man who calls this the new science of investigation. However, the matter was not in my hands. This is a new world. It is not Thebes, and it will take you time you do not have to learn its ways. There are many forces at work; I am concerned that, mishandled or misunderstood, they could crush a man like stale bread.’