‘You cannot say that! I knew her better than anyone but the king. I was devoted to her, and she rewarded my devotion with her trust.’
Huy pictured the neglected tomb in the Valley, and wondered if Surere was thinking of it too.
‘She had seven daughters by the king,’ continued Surere. ‘Seven daughters and no sons. And yet he never sought another Great Wife. He knew the fruit of their loins was ordained by Aten. Seven vessels of purity, destined to bear great children, to carry the New Thinking throughout the world, even beyond the Great Green, and south beyond the forests to the sea again.’
Huy looked at him. Beyond the Great Green and the lands to the north of it, he knew, was the world’s end. A rocky coast, a scattering of wild islands.
The forests to the south had never been crossed. The world’s end lay there too.
‘And what has happened to them?’ Surere went on.
The last princess had been born too soon and too tiny to live. The oldest, whom the king her father had also married, later took as her husband his successor, Smenkhkare. The second daughter had died in childhood; the fifth and sixth princesses, still children, were virtual prisoners of Horemheb in the royal palace of the Southern Capital, together with their aunt Nezemmut, Nefertiti’s younger sister; and though treated with all the deference their rank demanded, they were never allowed anywhere unattended by a corps of Horemheb’s own men.
The fourth sister, the one who had found the child in a basket on the banks of the river, and insisted on adopting him, had married Burraburiash of Babylon and long since left the Black Land. Her adopted son Ra-Moses was now a junior officer in the Army of the Northern Frontier.
‘One of them is married to our present king,’ Huy said quietly. The third sister, Ankhsenpaaten, had been given as a child bride to Tutankhaten. When he became pharaoh, they changed their names in honour of the Old Religion – he to Tutankhamun, she to Ankhsenpaamun. The old god of the Southern Capital, Amun, with his wife Mut the Vulture and his son Khons the Moon Sailor, had returned in triumphant trinity.
‘Yes!’ said Surere bitterly. ‘And see how she has rewarded the memory of her father. It would be better if she had died.’
‘You cannot say that.’
‘I can! I can say it with authority.’
‘Whose?’
Surere’s voice dropped. ‘I will tell you. The king’s.’
Huy looked at him closely, unsure how to react, even what to think. Surere was returning his gaze out of candid, friendly eyes; convinced eyes. The eyes of a madman.
‘On the authority of which king?’ asked Huy carefully, not wanting to break the fragile atmosphere.
‘Akhenaten.’ Surere’s stare did not waver. It became more triumphant. ‘You see? He has not abandoned us. Huy, abandon your cynicism. Do not go back to the old gods.’
Huy sat fixed to his stool, his heart still. It could be that the king had returned. But why now? And why to Surere?
‘You are sure?’ He knew how banal the question was as soon as he had asked it, but it did not affect Surere’s mood. ‘I am as sure of it as I am of this water.’
‘What did he look like?’
Surere made a gesture of impatience. ‘Like himself. Do you think I only saw his Ba? Do you think the king would have a mere Ba? A little feathered thing with a human head? No, it was himself, in his body, the Eight Elements reunited.’
‘Where did you see him?’
Surere suddenly looked crafty. ‘Too many questions, little brother. No; now it is for me to speak and you to listen.’ Huy spread his hands submissively, but then winced in pain as Surere suddenly leant forward and seized his shoulder, the strength of ten men in his large, bony hand.
‘His daughter has disappointed him; that is why she has no children,’ continued Surere. ‘That was the first thing he told me. He is distressed by what the Black Land has become, so soon after his departure for the Fields of Aarru. That is why he cannot rest there. He hears the voice of his people constantly, calling him. And now he has returned to help them, through his chosen disciples.’
Surere stopped, to see what effect his words were having on Huy. Huy sat in silence, hoping that his expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
‘My own instincts were correct, little brother,’ continued Surere, repeating the term of endearment. ‘I had strayed from the path of true justice, and used people for my own ends. I see now how wrong I was, and yet when I told the king that without resorting to such action I would still be in the granite quarries and so unable to do his bidding, he understood and forgave me. I even believe he sent Khaemhet the boatman to be my lover and my liberator.’ He paused for a moment, looking past Huy’s shoulder, far away, before continuing, but without releasing his tenacious grip.
‘I was right about the Black Land. Without the moral strength of the New Thinking it will fall back into the old corruption. Imagine, Huy. For two thousand years we lived in darkness. The light dazzled us for a bare ten years with its brilliance, before it was extinguished. Our task is to rekindle it. Will you not help me?’
He paused again, this time clearly waiting for an answer. ‘Gladly,’ replied Huy cautiously. ‘But my place is not in the desert. Surely, there is work to do here too.’
Surere made a dismissive gesture with one elegant arm. ‘The capitals are doomed. This Southern Capital especially, the seat of – I can barely bring myself to utter the name – Amun, the False One, the Pretender. It is a city of futile dreams, my friend. And without the True Light, the Black Land is doomed.’
‘And the king told you all this?’ Huy felt cold. Outside, the sun still shone, though with the approach of evening the light had lost some of its force and the room grew dimmer. It was cold here. He watched a lizard scuttle furtively along the join between wall and ceiling, and disappear into a crevice.
To Huy’s relief, his shoulder was released. It throbbed. He wanted to rub it, but the balanos for the bruise that would grow there would have to wait until later. ‘I offered him my thoughts. I opened my heart to him, and he gave me his blessing.’
‘Did he give you any…orders?’
For a moment, Surere was confused; then his expression cleared. ‘He will, in his time.’
‘And where will he give you them? In the desert?’
‘If he chooses. He smiles on my plan.’
‘You have collected followers, I suppose?’
Surere looked at him serenely. ‘I will found my community. Then they will come. The king will help me.’
Huy looked at him. ‘I have a last question.’
‘Yes?’
‘Why did you leave my house? Did you know the Med jays would come?’
Surere smiled. ‘I did not need the king’s guidance for that. I knew they would arrive sooner or later. I saw them watching your house and I escaped through the back. Prison teaches you cunning.’
The same covered rickshaw took Huy back to the city. Once more, Huy had no opportunity to see out, but guessed from the number of twists and turns it made that they were taking a deliberately tortuous route. Once more, he was accompanied by the taciturn messenger. When the rickshaw came to a halt, it was not at his house, but at the deserted harbour.
Huy understood why he had been dropped here, from where a large number of roads led off back to the various parts of the city, but guessed that they had underestimated his knowledge of the twisting muddle of streets that formed the harbour quarter. He had no doubt that he would be able to keep pace with the rickshaw and follow it wherever it went, even now, when the descending darkness created streets of shadow where there were none in reality, and when the eye played tricks on the heart.
The messenger moved so fast that Huy barely saw the club as it swung through the air at his throat. The force of the blow caught him squarely and sent him sprawling, gasping for breath, temporarily blinded, rolling in the dust. Spitting and spluttering, forcing his flailing hands and knees to get a grip on the earth and push him back upright, he heard the rushing creak of the rickshaw’s wheels and the patter of feet as the haulier sped off into the night.