Nick Drake - Nefertiti.he book of the dead

‘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.' And those topaz eyes gazed right through me for a long moment.

'But please remember: I am here to help. Let me offer my hand in professional respect, Medjay to Medjay. I am the man with the keys to this city. I know it stone by stone. I know where the stones are from, and who placed them in their positions, and why.'

I maintained a level gaze throughout this soliloquy. And since it seemed we were making speeches to each other, after a respectful pause I stood up and began my reply.

'I agree with your assessment of the situation. And I gratefully accept your offer of professional support. But since Akhenaten himself has chosen me, I hope I can earn the unqualified support of all his servants. I believe he would wish it to be so. And if I fail, there will be no question of my fate.'

He inclined his head very slightly, and held my gaze for a little too long. 'We understand each other perfectly.' He then turned back to his desk, briefly scanned the papyrus document, looked up at me with an enigmatic expression somewhere between a smile and a warning, and almost negligently let the document drift back down into the empty tray on his desk. 'Your interview is destined for sunset,' he said, before sitting down and turning his attention to the window.

I walked out of the room with the feeling he was watching me through the back of that cruel skull, and closed the door behind me. I had to give it a little shove to close it fully, and the squeak and bang alerted the guards, the nasty little secretary and the assistant. The latter came forward and said, 'I will show you your accommodation. And then bring you to your appointment.' So he already knew all about it. I felt like an animal being prepared for the offering table. Sunset, indeed. The hour of death.

I can do nothing but wait, and waiting is torture to me. I would rather eat sand. I have been given an office, with a couch and a desk, in a construction behind the main temples and the Medjay barracks. It looks on to an empty pool, with a fountain that does not work. It is surrounded by a terrace, and beyond that there is a view of a rock-strewn, red-earth plot. Someone has hurriedly tried to make the terrace look less derelict by placing some uncertain plants and little acacia bushes in pots. And a bench, as if I might have the leisure to sit in the shade and think of pleasure and poetry. But otherwise the building seems uninhabited. Above the head of the couch is a niche containing an icon of Akhenaten himself, the Great King into whose presence I am shortly to be ushered. Well, I will then be able to gauge the differences between the strange fellow in this niche, with his long neck, sagging belly and large sloping eyes, somewhere between a mule and a mother-in-law, and the reality of the divine incarnation. I drank water from the jug. It was unusually sweet and clear. Then I tested the couch for softness and was surprised by how comfortable it seemed, especially after the spine-bending experience of the ship's hammock. Too comfortable as it turned out. I awoke, suddenly, to banging. It was late, and someone was knocking on the door. I remembered nothing. My journal lay on the floor, its sheets somewhat creased, the flow of words stopped in mid-thought. The image of Akhenaten still stared down at me, as if I was already failing on the job. But I felt strangely rested. Had I been so tired to sleep like that? I checked the room. Nothing seemed changed. I examined the journal: no sheets torn out, no markings. Yet – something felt different. As if there were a trace of some other presence in the memory of the air. Had there been some potion in the water? I remembered then its unusual sweetness.

The knocking was repeated. I called out 'Enter!' in an authoritative way that I hoped disguised my afternoon sleepiness. The officer of the guard who had conducted me to the interview, and then to this office, appeared at the threshold. A man perhaps five years younger than me, with careful eyes and a well-learned expression of caution accommodated within a pleasant, alert and undistinguished face. He was followed by a younger man, more handsome, neat and smooth, with the eyes of a charmer and that deliberately slow leisure of movement common to our profession. 'What is your name?' I addressed the more senior of the pair. 'Khety, sir.' 'A wise name for a wise man?' 'My parents hoped so, sir.' 'We gain power from our names, don't you believe?' 'It is generally believed to be so, yes, sir.' He held himself carefully. Unconfidently confident. 'How long have you been here, Khety?' 'Since the beginning, sir. With Mahu himself.' 'You mean since the city was built?' 'All my life. My father worked for him before me.' This was common practice, of course. The generations of a low- or even middle-ranking family would have a great deal to gain by such an alliance, as well as a great deal to lose if they were in any way to fall from favour. But it told me quite candidly, and as I might easily have guessed, that I must deal carefully with this officer. Bring him in to my researches while knowing that every detail and every step will be reported to Mahu. All perfectly normal. 'And you?' 'Tjenry, sir.'

His tone lacked a touch of respect, but I liked his style, his hint of bravura.

'I look forward to the benefit of your experience and knowledge during the investigation of the mystery.' 'It's an honour, sir.' He allowed a touch of a smile to curve his lips.