The Book of the Dead (34 page)

The Vizier spoke the truth; their journey had been fast, and was almost done. Amun had emerged from his house to find a fleet of chariots filling the road outside; Prehotep had carefully led him to the largest and most splendid, in which the two men were now travelling. Nine military chariots surrounded them, along with several dozen soldiers on foot, their spears drawn. It was an awesome sight, a physical manifestation of the Vizier’s power and influence; as they made their way through the centre of Thebes, heading for the Valley of the Kings to the east and the Ibu that had been constructed there, men and women prostrated themselves at the sides of the roads, their heads lowered to the sand in deference to the passage of Prehotep and his passenger.

At the eastern edge of Thebes they passed the temple of Anubis, the great stone monument to death and rebirth in which Amun had been born and lived. He stared at it as they rumbled by its southern façade, a flat wall of pale yellow rock that rose imposingly towards the heavens; he had spent more days inside it than out, by a great number.

“Does the temple bring back memories?” asked Prehotep.

“The temple never leaves me,” replied Amun. “I do not need to see it to remember.”

Prehotep smiled, and turned his attention back towards their direction of travel. The last of Thebes ebbed away and the desert swallowed them, seeming to appear from nowhere and coat the entire world with a blanket of sand and stone. Amun shielded his eyes against the worst of the dust, making sure to keep one hand firmly on the chariot’s rail, and squinted; in the distance, a white square rose against the shimmering horizon.

“The Ibu?” he asked, and pointed. Prehotep followed the line of his finger, and nodded.

“Yes. It is the largest that has ever been built.”

“Why?”

“I do not understand,” said Prehotep, frowning. “Why what?”

“Why must it be so large?” said Amun. “The rituals require no more space now than in years past.”

“It is not a matter of practicality,” said Prehotep, the smile returning to his face. “It is for the glory of Ra, and for his departed servant.”

“I do not think Ramesses would have cared about the size of the tent he was laid in,” said Amun.

“I would not presume to guess,” said Prehotep. “I did not have the privilege of knowing the Pharaoh for the weight of years that you were given. But it is what is required, for the death of the greatest ruler the empire has known. It is what is expected.”

Amun grunted. He was sure the Vizier was correct; the monuments and temples that had been built for Ramesses and his many wives and children had grown ever larger as his reign had reached its fifth, sixth, and seventh decades, towering creations dedicated to the glory of the Pharaoh and the empire he led. Of course the mourning public would expect an Ibu larger than any that had gone before it; it was only natural. Although he was also sure that he was correct, that Ramesses himself would not have cared about the dimensions of the room in which he was laid to rest; he would have cared only about what was done to him inside it.

“Life is a great house,” he whispered. “With many doors.”

“Did you say something, Hery Sesheta?” said Prehotep.

Amun shook his head. “No.”

The body of Seti I rested on the same stone table that his father had lain on eleven years earlier.

It had been forty days since Amun had helped to cover the dead Pharaoh’s body in natron, the task he had once watched the Wetyw, of whose ranks he was now a member, do for Ramesses I as he stood beside his grandson. He was now a man of nineteen and a full member of the priesthood of Anubis, although still one of the most junior; his father, whose health was now beginning to fail him, had made it very clear that he would receive no advancement for reasons other than his own devotion and competence. Ahmose was standing silent watch at the head of the table as the Wetyw unpacked the thick layer of salt and carried buckets of water from the Nile into the Ibu, ready to wash Seti clean and oil his skin so that it remained supple inside his wrappings.

They would begin as soon as the Pharoah’s family arrived.

Amun had been looking forward to this day, even though he knew how inappropriate it was for him to do so. He was now involved in carrying out the rituals upon which a man’s safety in the afterlife depended, and if Ahmose knew his focus was on anything other than the task at hand, he would have been severely beaten.

But he simply could not help himself.

Today, the Prince Regent, who would shortly ascend to the throne as Ramesses II, was going to observe the beginning of the wrapping, a process that would take fifteen days to complete. The young royal had not attended any of the burial process so far, much to Amun’s disappointment. He had heard tales of the Prince Regent’s adventures in the years since their single conversation had taken place, and had felt a strange pride, as though he was hearing stories of his own brother, rather than a member of the royal family. He knew, deep down, that it was incredibly unlikely that the Prince Regent would remember him, or recall a conversation that had taken place when they were both still boys, but he didn’t care.

He
remembered.

Ahmose, his face hidden behind the Anubis mask that was now faded and worn, much like the skin beneath it, tapped the bottom of his staff against the stone table. Amun and the rest of the Wetyw immediately formed a line on one side of the Ibu, drew themselves up to their full height and waited silently as Seti’s family entered the tent.

The Prince Regent led them, his head up, his eyes clear and full of life. The nose that had been full when last Amun saw him had developed into a pronounced hook, and there was a slight unsteadiness to his left side, as though he was feeling pain in that leg. But the rest of him was just as Amun remembered; the face handsome, the hair jet black, the skin smooth and gleaming. The man who was about to take charge of the entire Egyptian empire strode into the Ibu, looked around quickly, then broke into a smile.

“Amun,” he said. “Have you forgotten your place in this tent?”

Amun felt a lump rise into his throat, and fought back the urge to laugh with delight. Instead, he forced himself to turn slowly and bow to his father; the Hery Sesheta acknowledged it with the merest inclination of the Anubis mask’s snout. Amun thanked him, and walked across the tent to where Ramesses was stood, facing the dried out remains of his father. With him were a large number of his wives and retinue, but the Prince Regent paid them all scant attention; he was focussed on the body before him. Amun slipped into the line beside him, and followed his gaze. For a long moment, neither man spoke, until Ramesses uttered a single word.

“Begin.”

The priests did as they were told. The Hery Heb began to recite his verses and incantations, as the Wetyw washed the Pharaoh, gently rinsing away the natron and removing the salt parcels from inside the body. As the first oils were applied to the dead man’s skin, Ramesses turned to Amun.

“I had your father provide me with updates on your progress,” he said. “I am glad to see you are doing well.”

“Thank you, your Highness,” said Amun. “I am sorry for the loss of your father.”

Ramesses nodded. “He lived a full life.”

“Are you sad, Highness?”

Ramesses broke into a smile. “I should have you whipped for impudence,” he said. “You remember our conversation as well as I do.”

“I do.”

“And do you see?”

“I see, your Highness.”

“Tell me.”

Amun smiled. “I have seen much. I have seen women shriek and men weep and beat their chests with pain. I have cut flesh and packed salt and washed and oiled skin. I have seen what is inside all men, be they slave or merchant or Pharaoh.”

“What is inside?” asked Ramesses, his voice low.

“Meat,” said Amun. “Blood, and bone. The souls cannot be seen, but they are there, in every man whose body lies before me. They will move on, whether they wish to or not, just as they were born into this world, whether or not they wanted to be.”

A smile of great beauty lit up Ramesses’ face. “You
have
seen.”

“You showed me the path, your Highness,” said Amun. “I merely walked it.”

On the stone table, Seti’s body had been emptied of the salt that had filled it. His organs, which had been carefully dehydrated in ornate jars, were wrapped in linen and handed to the Hetemw Netjer, who placed them back into the empty cavity. When they had all been returned to their rightful places, the Hery Sesheta stepped back from the table, and the Wetyw scurried forward with armfuls of leaves and linens with which to pack the Pharaoh’s body. Ramesses and Amun watched as they soaked the dead skin a final time with scented oils, then stepped back.

“Now comes the wrapping?” said Ramesses.

“Yes,” said Amun. “Now it comes.”

The Hery Heb’s incantations grew louder and more frenetic as the Hery Sesheta bent down until the snout of the Anubis mask was almost touching the corpse. Then, working with a speed and dexterity that belied his advancing years, Ahmose began to loop strips of linen around Seti’s head, pulling them tight and fastening them in place with resin. When it was done, an unspoken command passed from him to the Wetyw, who began to wrap the individual fingers and toes with the same remarkable precision. As they wound linen up the legs, Ahmose produced two blue amulets from his robe, and held them up above his head. The Hery Heb’s chanting became almost frenzied, and as the Wetyw reached the hips with their first layer of wrapping, Ahmose placed the two pieces reverentially onto Seti’s chest. As they were bound to his flesh for all eternity, Ramesses, who had been watching in devout silence, spoke to Amun.

“Tell me of the amulets. I would know.”

“The one that now rests over your father’s heart,” said Amun, his voice little more than a whisper. “That is the Isis Knot. It will protect his body in the afterlife. The one that lies on his stomach is the Plummet. It gives balance, in all worlds.”

“You are sure?”

“I am,” said Amun. “My father would not let the Pharaoh travel onwards unprotected.”

Ramesses nodded, his eyes still fixed on the dried-out husk that had been his father. Then he turned to Amun. “If I asked you to accompany me to the palace and serve as my personal priest, what answer would you give?”

“Your Highness,” said Amun, his eyes widening. “There are many priests more senior than I, who would be –”

“I am not interested in other priests,” interrupted Ramesses. “I am interested in you. What answer would you give?”

“I would thank your Highness for such an offer,” said Amun. “And then I would refuse it.”

Ramesses stared at him for a long moment. “You would refuse the chance to sit at my side?”

“I would, your Highness.”

“Explain.”

“What I do here is more important, your Highness,” said Amun. “There is no greater honour than preparing our fellow men for the afterlife, and no greater responsibility. I would not do anything else.”

Ramesses narrowed his eyes. “And if I commanded you?”

“I would beg your Highness for mercy,” said Amun. “For leave to carry on with this work. And I believe it would be granted.”

Ramesses smiled. “Why do you say so?”

“Because I was taught that life is a great house, with many doors.”

The Prince Regent’s smile widened. “I will return in fourteen days when the wrapping is done,” he said. “Before your father opens my father’s mouth. Then one day, my friend, you will do the same for me.” Amun opened his mouth to protest, but Ramesses spoke over him. “Would you deny the request of your Pharaoh? Would you say no when he asks for your help, when he entrusts the most important thing in the world to you?”

“No, your Highness,” said Amun. His mind was racing. “But only the Hery Sesheta may open the mouth, and I am only Wetyw.”

“I have every intention,” said Ramesses, smiling once more, “of living a long life, Amun. I will die an old, old man. You will be almost as old yourself, and you will do this last thing for me. I would not have it done by any other. You will open my mouth and then another will open yours and I will see you on the other side, where perhaps you will be the Pharaoh and I the priest. Or perhaps we will both be herders, or builders. We will find out, in time. Do you make this vow with me?”

“I do, your Highness,” said Amun, his voice full and thick. He knew it was wrong to promise that which he could not guarantee; he might never be Hery Sesheta, and he might well not outlive his friend, even allowing for the dangers that went with the role of Pharaoh. But he had been asked to make a vow, and he had made it. He would simply have to find a way; breaking it was unthinkable.

“Good,” said Ramesses. “I must depart, but I will see you in fourteen turns. And we will speak again.”

And we did,
thought Amun, as the chariot neared the towering Ibu.
We spoke when Seti’s mouth was opened, and when he moved his Palace from Thebes to Pi-Ramesses Aa-nakhtu. We spoke when he buried the first of his sons, when he had been fighting in Syria and Nubia and some of the light had left his eyes. And then…

Amun looked out through the eyeholes in the Anubis mask, and felt his heart aching for his friend.

The mask had been a gift from the man who was now stood inside the Ibu, his head lowered, his hands clasped before him. It was a marvellous creation, set with jewels and gold and painted by the finest craftsman in the empire, with ears that rose more than two feet above his own head and teeth that seemed to alternately snarl and smile, depending on the angle they were viewed from. Amun had been Hery Sesheta for less than a year, and had presided over the burials of a dozen men and women in that time; none of them had in any way prepared him for what was asked of him now.

The Pharaoh Ramesses II, the God-King, the Conqueror of Syria, the Scourge of Nubia, raised his head, and Amun was horrified to see tears on his face. Before him, on the same stone table that had held his father, his grandfather, and almost a dozen of his sons, lay the mummified body of Nefertari, his Great Wife. Amun had demanded his priests’ very finest work, and they had delivered; the mummy was a work of art, its lines smooth and elegant, the amulets contained within the wrappings the finest he had seen, the scroll of the
Book of the Dead
that had been placed in her hands the work of the finest calligrapher in all of Thebes, and the painting of Osiris that covered her chest a glory to the god it depicted. He had dismissed his priests before the Pharaoh arrived, despite their desire to discover whether the God-King was pleased with their work. Amun knew that there was nothing inside the Ibu that was going to give Ramesses any pleasure.