A God Against the Gods (25 page)

Amonhotep III
(life, health, prosperity!)

Little sniveling greedy men, off on the edge of Kemet, off on the edge of my life! What do they know of the troubles we suffer in this land? What do they know of the sufferings of his mother, and of me?

More miracles, more “wonders!” Now the Court and the people are to gather this afternoon under the archway that runs between his apartments and hers, beneath the “Window of Appearances” where they will show themselves (probably, as usual, naked) and announce his latest wildness. Have we not had enough of it? Must we go through another play-acting? It is too much: too much. And to think I am old and ailing as always, unable to stop him, unable to influence. There are days when I believe I am going to die, and there are days when I believe I should. Certainly I contribute nothing—except, of course, one thing:

As long as I live he cannot have complete authority and complete control.

It is worth pushing this fat old body on a while longer to keep that from happening. For when it does, Kemet, the gods, the House of Thebes, and all, may go into the darkness of the afterworld and nevermore return.

It is five years almost to the day since he brought us all to this place to announce the founding of Akhet-Aten. Five years almost to the day since he changed their names, proclaimed the Aten, and called on the people of the Two Lands to follow his lead. And what has he got from it all, except his city, which indeed he has? He has not got the following of the people. He has not got their loyalty. And he has not got their love. And starting a year ago, after four years of comparative quiet, he has begun again to arouse their uneasiness. For he has begun to make real inroads upon Amon at last, and all the fears that had arisen with Aanen’s murder but had gradually subsided, as they lived quietly in their city and ventured seldom forth, are grown again.

My brethren Burnaburiash and Tushratta are arch in their knowledge of what goes wrong here; arch and, I fear me, accurate. I shall send them a little gold, if it will keep them happy, and I shall probably marry Tadukhipa, out of respect for Gilukhipa’s memory if nothing else. She never liked it here, but she bore her burden well and was a good friend to my House in her own odd, glowering way. But for her, I suspect my darling Sitamon and sturdy Kaires would have had far fewer happy nights, and for that I thank her. None has had exactly the happy lives they would have wished, but together they have given one another solace, the young people valuing her secret assistance, she basking in their love and gratitude in return. She was ill for a year before she died, a sad unhappy thing. She lies now in the Valley of the Queens, where she will lie forever and ever, far from Mittani. At Tiye’s suggestion I gave her a full royal burial, and I do not regret it. She was a good woman. I hope Tadukhipa may be the same, though I may not be able to wait for the years to run on much longer before I take her to my bed. I wish to do it while I am still able.

And in that, thanks to Min and various potions prepared for me by his priests, I am. Akhenaten and Smenkhkara were much surprised three years ago when their mother suddenly started bearing again. First came the boy and then, a year later, the girl. I think this will probably be all, but their coming was a great delight to us. Smenkhkara, who has become a beautiful youth, sleek and golden, almost like a woman in the soft perfection of his looks and the gentle grace of his manner, welcomed them with an innocent glee and happiness. The Co-Regent, in what I see now was really the beginning of his new attack upon Amon, took a more direct approach.

“What do you intend to name the child, Father?” he inquired in each instance, actually making the trip all the way to Thebes both times for no other purpose, apparently, than to ask the question.

“I like the name,” he said slowly each time when I told him. Then his eyes narrowed and his face assumed its usual basilisk look. “But I would like it better if it were Tut-ankh-
aten
instead of Tut-ankh-
amon
.” And for the girl, the same: “I like the name. But—I would like it better if it were Beket-
aten
instead of Beket-
amon
.”

And such was his manner, and such was his look, which chills the Great Wife and me as much as it does anyone else when he turns it upon us, that after some fumbling and mumbling we gave in both times and announced to the world that the new god and his sister were indeed to be known as Tut-ankh-aten and Beket-aten. This did not please Amon, but we have gradually learned that it is better that we please our son.

And of course, I will say for him, he is consistent. Six little princesses now fill his own household. Three more have joined Merytaten, Meketaten and Ankhesenpaaten. Of the six, four bear the name of the Aten. The names of the last two end in “Ra”; he refuses ever again to use the name “Amon.”

Six little princesses, and no little son. It is I, the old Pharaoh, who produces the sons. Neb-Ma’at-Ra is not dead yet, by the gods!

Secretly I know this worries them very much: they wish a son who would succeed to the Double Crown and carry on the work of the Aten. It appears more and more likely that this will never be. Beautiful Smenkhkara stands next in line, and now my little Tut-ankh-
aten
after him. What will they make of their brother’s heritage, such as it is? Tut is too young to know, as yet, and Smenkhkara is too gentle and diplomatic—and at heart, I think, too much in awe of his older brother, and too adoring—to express opposition, but I wonder if he really believes. I watch him closely for signs, but so far the only signs I see are that he prefers his brother’s company to that of any woman, which may or may not be a good thing. No doubt it will change: he is very young yet, in many ways much younger at his age than Akhenaten, who, it sometimes seems now, was never young.

My brethren Tushratta and Burnaburiash say true when they describe the state of Kemet, yet they are unfair when they blame me for it. I am ill, I have been ill for many years; I never had much enthusiasm for whipping my vassals, though I did make expeditions to Nubia and Sidon when I was much younger, and there punished bands of rebels, as you may see on my monuments. Mostly I have preferred to hold them to me, as I have held my people, by beneficence, though I know this has often worried Tiye and Aye, Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, and Kaires. They have felt, and often said, with varying degrees of politeness and temerity, that I should take a firmer line, send my forces far afield, perhaps every two or three years go myself, just to prove that I am here and that Pharaoh’s power is still supreme. I do not worry as they do about our vassals: let them squabble with one another, as I said before. It only makes Kemet stronger, and leaves her in peace to enjoy the calmness of my rule. And it permits me to enjoy it, too, which has not always been the case with some of my hard-working ancestors!

“Enjoy,” I put it. I wonder how long it has been since I have really
enjoyed
wearing the Double Crown. Quite some years now, I am afraid. Ever since my oldest son began his erratic reign. Ever since he gave himself, his family, and—if he could do it, which I thank all the gods he cannot—Kemet away to the Aten.

More temples dot the land, more priests wear the crimson robe of Aten. And still there are no great throngs flocking to his altars, no great streams of tribute coming to his coffers. My people leave the Aten as severely alone as my son, up to now, has left Amon. Now my son is beginning to change his indifference; and this, to me, suggests unhappily that my people may before long begin to change their indifference to him and to the Aten—and not in a way that my son will like.

In the two years that the major part of this city was abuilding, he and Nefertiti (I cannot bring myself to say “Nefer-Neferu-Aten”—“Akhenaten” is hard enough) had much to occupy them. They were into everything, consulting with Bek and Tuthmose, with Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, and Ramose, with all who were concerned with the great task. I doubt if there is a single temple he has not personally supervised, a single garden or pathway that she has not designed. Ten thousand peasants have worked here steadily night and day for two years to create Akhet-Aten out of desert and a ridge of hills; and although the number has now dropped to about two thousand, they still work incessantly, putting the finishing touches to the paintings, the sculptures and the hieroglyphs on the walls that all hymn the praises of the Aten. Bek and his colleagues, like all of Kemet’s sculptors and artists, abhor a blank wall. As has been the custom throughout our long and ancient history, there is scarcely a square inch uncovered anywhere. In this new city as in all the older ones, the mind is bedazzled by so much.

It is not, I think, impressed, as it is in the cities of Amon.

Again, as so many times before, I wonder: What would have happened if I had been content to fight alone my battles with Amon? If I had not dedicated my son to another god? If I had not underestimated both the son and the god? If I had let well enough alone?

It is perhaps the only instance in my rule when I have not left well enough alone. It is also, of course, the most disastrous.

Even so, it has not ever been quite so disturbing as it is now, because now he is showing some signs that the toy of Akhet-Aten is beginning to bore him. He is finally beginning to show some impatience that the Aten has not made the advances in the people’s hearts that he wishes it to do. He is finally beginning to show an increasingly open anger with Amon—not the searing flash of rage that finally brought my brother-in-law Aanen the death he deserved, but a steady, smoldering, unyielding, implacable dislike, which appears to be husbanding its fire and awaiting its opportunities. This, I think, bodes ill for Amon, for Kemet, and for him. I pray to both Amon and Aten that it will not be so, but my worries grow the more as my ability to influence my son grows less.

Of course, the Great Wife and I cannot complain that he is not a thoughtful and considerate son. He has built us small palaces here, he has built a sunshade like Nefertiti’s for Tiye, where she may sit and meditate, he hopes, about the Aten. Personally, I think she sits and broods about him, though we rarely discuss it nowadays, and when we do she sounds harried and sharp. She is looking much older, now. These years of uncertainty with him, now perhaps to become even more uncertain, have taken their toll of her as they have of Nefertiti. Nefertiti remains as always outwardly serene, composed, assured, every beauty line and shadow of kohl in place, every inch of make-up perfect as though glued to her face: but I think she too has tensions.

Their days pass in prayers and sacrifices to the Aten; in frequent ceremonies at the Window of Appearances, where they disburse gold trinkets to those whose work on the city has particularly pleased them; and in frequent wild dashes with their daughters in an open chariot about the confines of the city, while all the workmen down their tools and join the people to cheer them with the good nature of those who know where their next meal is coming from. Now and again they have made state progresses to Memphis, sudden journeys to Thebes; now and again, I believe, he consults on the public business with Aye’s son Nakht-Min, who at twenty-three is already a Commander of Horse and an assistant to faithful old Vizier Ramose—so rapidly do we rise, in this new world of his. And of course he consults faithfully with Aye himself, and with Kaires, who is always there, always thoughtful, always patient—and, I have the feeling, always ready: for what I do not exactly know, but if I were my son, I would pay more attention.

But I am not my son, and thank the gods for that. I am only dull, sick old Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity to me!), who is capable only of making little princes and princesses, and of being loved by his people. For I
am
loved. Recently Tiye and I traveled the length of Kemet for my Second Jubilee, and everywhere in their millions my people turned out to greet me with their love. They worship me, both formally as a god—they have done this for many years (and indeed I frequently worship myself, particularly at my big mortuary temple near Medinet Habu)—and, with a deeper instinct, as their beloved King and Pharaoh.

Akhenaten, as he cannot match me in princes, also cannot match me in the love of our people. I think he still fascinates them with his ugliness. They watch him and they fear him. But they do not love him. I doubt if he even realizes, so absorbed is he with the Aten. He and the Aten love each other, and that for him is apparently enough.

I must send for Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, who is still my favorite scribe and confidant. There is time before we must gather at the Window of Appearances. Together we will draft replies to my brethren of Babylon and Mittani.

I may be ill, old, fat, bald and waddling, but I can still turn a phrase or two.

They will hear from Nibmuaria, though it will please me to give them considerably less gold than they wish to have.

Then
listen to them squeak!

***