Free On a Balcony by David Stacton Page B

process that as soon as the rubbing is taken, we destroy the original.
    But only the artist knows this. It is his great trade secret, the secret perhaps of any trade, for only those at the top know how little is the distance they have climbed, how far there is they failed to go, for only at the top can we catch a glimpse of what lies beyond.
    *
    Meanwhile, at the palace, there were problems. Tiiy, Amenophis, and Horemheb were in the pavilion by the lake.
    It was difficult, these days, to get Amenophis to do anything, for he was completely wrapped up in the astonishing news that after all he was not dying. The light which this had flooded over his whole life had blinded him to everything else. Now his son was co-regent , he proposed, despite his pain, to enjoy himself. Except for the family hobby of building, he left matters of state to Tiiy.
    The great jewelled mortuary temple of the Memnonion , which he had erected to both of them was, they said, finished, and he was determined to see it. Beyond that, his responsibilities were over, so far as he was concerned.
    So Horemheb and Tiiy, with Ay for company, were forced to discuss political affairs in the Memnonion, a setting that was not exactly conducive to worry, for into this vast pile Amenophis had poured the luxury of a lifetime. Obscure revolutions in Syria and scrubby revolts in the Delta shrank into insignificance here.
    They carried him in in a litter, and even he looked lost in that wilderness of burnished marble, silver and gold inlay, prismatic jewels, shrines of lapis lazuli, and formal statues of himself all taller than he was. Eventhough they whispered, the walls reverberated to their voices. It was as useless to tell him the Empire was falling to pieces, as it was to tell the prince. Commander of the Armies Horemheb might be, but there was nothing he was to be allowed to command them to do.
    “After all, the boy is young. He will learn,” said Amenophis.
    That was exactly what they were afraid of.
    Ay asked if either of them had been to the Aton temple.
    Tiiy only half listened. Somewhere behind all this was her daughter, she knew that. And Nefertiti was sly. For Nefertiti now also went to the Aton temple. Meryra had tactfully adapted the ritual to fit her.
    “Who is this man Meryra?” demanded Tiiy.
    “The prince apparently sets great store by him.”
    “He must be a fanatic. Put a stop to him,” snapped Tiiy, and thought no more of the matter.
    By then Meryra could not have stopped himself.
    Horemheb had a moment of disillusionment. They were not busy, wise, good, and impersonal. They were not all understanding. They were not gods. They were only Amenophis and Tiiy, two intelligent and beautiful toys, who played with their Empire as though it, too, were a toy; and who would protect that Empire only as a rich man would protect his investments, when at long last he came to realize that his income had shrunk.
    For the first time in his life he saw that, dwarfed by the dimensions of his own monument, Amenophis looked smaller, and Tiiy, just for an instant, irrelevant. It saddened him. He had always believed that loyalty was an emotional matter. Now he began to realize that it could also be abstract.
    And then the magic was back again. She laid her hand on his arm. She needed his help.

Three
    I n two years one can persuade oneself of almost anything . Familiarity, in that event, breeds confidence.
    Nefertiti had persuaded herself that she was happy. Since she had never been happy, this was not too difficult to do. She was now the first, or almost the first, woman in the Empire.
    The prince had persuaded himself he was Pharaoh, the ruler of his people, well loved, universally trusted, the eternal well-spring of favour, powerful, gracious and understanding. He had not persuaded Tiiy, and whether Ay believed it, or indeed anything, would have been difficult to judge. He was much too busy to believe in anything, for he virtually ran the government, and Tiiy ran