A God Against the Gods (27 page)
Read A God Against the Gods Online
Authors: Allen Drury
“What do you propose, O Son of the Sun?” I ask in sudden alarm, a panicky concern striking my heart at his somberly determined tone.
“More wonders, Mother,” he says dryly. “What do you expect? I have not performed many lately. Do you not think it about time?”
“My son,” I say gravely, “do not jest with the Two Lands. You have caused enough concern with your name, your city and your abandoning of the old gods for the new. Is that not enough to satisfy you? Do not push it further, I beseech you.”
“‘Satisfy’ me?” he demands, his voice a mixture of irony, anger and pain. “Do you think I worship the Aten just to ‘satisfy’ myself?”
“You satisfy no one else,” I cannot resist saying, instantly shocked at my own temerity, but after all I am the Great Wife, for many years Pharaoh in all but name of the Two Lands, and he is still my son. I expect an explosion and decide with a sudden recklessness that I am ready for it. It is time someone talked to him like this, and since his father does not dare, it must fall to me.
But, amazingly, the explosion does not come.
For a long moment he too stares across the plain, over the enormous, bustling city he has created, shimmering away, like the dream it is, toward the southern hills. When he speaks it is with a curious gentleness, as though from a far distance, in realms where I cannot follow.
“Mother,” he says, “you must understand me: It is not for my own satisfaction, though I have it and in great measure, that I worship the Aten. It is not for her satisfaction or theirs that my wife and our daughters join me in worshiping the Aten. It is, rather, that we would bear witness to what he is: that we would say to our people:
“‘Look you at this Great God, Father Aten, and see how kind he is! Look you how he is fresh like the morning and sweet like the dew! See how he is the Great God, the Sole God, the Universal God! See how he gives life to all things on earth! See how he makes the grass grow, the birds fly, the animals leap, the waters move! See how all men and all women spring from his serene brow to gleam like jewels of glory in his crown! See how he loves his Son, Akhenaten, who brings you his message and reveals how he will comfort you in all things and all places!
“‘Great is the glory of Aten the Father and Great is Akhenaten his Son!’ …
This
is what we say to the people, Mother: this, and no else.”
“But if your god is the greatest god—”
He interrupts instantly.
“The
Only
God! Amon and the rest are but profanations now!”
“If he is, then, the only god,” I persist, “why is it that the people must worship anyone besides him? Why must they worship you, my son? Why cannot they worship the Aten directly without your intervention?”
“Do the people worship Amon directly without the intervention of my father?” he asks sharply; and there, of course, he has me. “They worship Father Amon and they worship my father who is his son—Father and Son, indivisible. They would not dare worship Amon did they not also worship my father. He speaks for them to Amon; he speaks for Amon to them. So they are worshiped jointly. Is it not so? Has it not been immemorially so? Therefore do I ask them to worship me, who am the Son of the Aten, that I may speak for them to the Aten, and for the Aten to them. It is no different … except,” he adds softly, “that it is
my
god who will ultimately prevail.”
“I wonder, my son—” I begin, and fall silent for a moment while I consider whether to say what I wish to say next. Over the cliff’s edge we can hear Merytaten screaming furiously at Ankhesenpaaten: there is already bad blood between the two little girls, both already prideful of position and apparently destined to become jealous women as they are now jealous children. Nefertiti, who has been listening to us with close attention, springs up and strides toward them as one of the royal nursemaids comes puffing up the hill from the servants’ resting place below.
“I wonder, my son,” I resume when we are alone, “whether in your heart, in your
ka
and
ba
,
the very essence and soul of your being, you wish the people to worship the Aten to glorify the Aten—or whether you wish them to worship the Aten because it will glorify
you
?”
For a split second his eyes narrow dangerously and again I expect an outburst of rage. It does not come. He controls himself. A bland, ironic smile comes to the heavy lips.
“Mother,” he says, “I have witnessed my father’s way with Amon: I have witnessed what the lack of a firm hand with priests can do to the power and might of Pharaoh. I have seen the inroads of Amon upon this House. Surely you, the realist, the practical one, surely you who have been for many years Pharaoh in all but name of the Two Lands”—I have never told him I feel this, and secretly I am thrilled to learn that he recognizes it, too—“can understand. When I became Co-Regent the pattern was too firm, the direction too set. As a young Pharaoh of fifteen I should have been even less able than Neb-Ma’at-Ra to control the priests of Amon. But now I have created a new god, a new priesthood. Who is to say me nay with them?
I
created
them.
“Thus shall
I
be Pharaoh again as Pharaoh was always meant to be—truly supreme in Kemet. Thus will the House of Thebes regain its full powers in the Two Kingdoms, and over all the Universal God will spread his unifying rays.…
“You should approve of me, Mother, for I work toward the same goal that you always have, only to be prevented by the Good God’s weakness.”
“Do not speak thus disrespectfully of Pharaoh!” I say automatically, but he recognizes its ritual quality, for he openly smiles.
“I do not speak disrespectfully of
this
Pharaoh,” he says, touching his narrow chest with a long, bony finger. “Never of
this
Pharaoh!”
And so, somewhat (if not entirely) relieved, I laugh. And he laughs. And thus Nefertiti finds us when she comes back up the ledge leading a chastened and obviously punished Merytaten.
She smiles in open relief that we should be agreeing thus amicably. I smile back in a rare moment of unity with my daughter-in-law. It is only later, after we have completed our meal and dashed back across the sands into the city, after I have been deposited at my own small but beautiful palace in the southern section and they have dashed on away to their own beautifully painted apartments on the “Island” that the doubts return to me.
He spoke most fervently as priest when he discussed his faith, but he spoke most calculatingly as Pharaoh when he discussed his power and the power of this House. Was the blind faith what he really feels, and was the emphasis on practical considerations something he offered deliberately to appease and divert me from his true intentions?
When he admitted that the people have for the most part ignored him and the Aten up to now, why did he say with such chilling certainty, “I think they may soon ignore me no longer”?
I do not trust my son, though it breaks my mother’s heart to say so. Many things move beneath the strange surface of him the world now knows as Akhenaten. This afternoon he wishes the Court and the city to gather at the Window of Appearances for another of his “wonders.” He indicates this will not be the usual awarding of gold to faithful servants. Something more portentous impends.
We have learned to mistrust Akhenaten’s “wonders,” in Kemet. Which of his two sides will he show us this afternoon—the mystic follower of the Aten, or the jealous Good God who lately is becoming more and more impatient with Amon and more and more determined to challenge him openly at last?
He has been slow to provoke, enwrapped as he has been in building his city, extending his temples and extolling his god. Meanwhile Amon has not rested, though since Aanen’s death—a fitting murder-for-murder, though I could wish it had taken place more discreetly and out of public view—the white-robes have been more secretive and more circumspect
During
Neb-Ma’at-Ra’s reign (I already speak as though it were over, though he lives; we plan his Third Jubilee for next year, but I wonder) there was continued grumbling, a steady pushing to gain more power and influence, a hundred thousand little gnats nibbling away at us and our throne. In recent years this has increased, encouraged by the general breakdown in civic control and general morality. Aanen’s death has only driven them underground. They have become more circumspect on the surface, more treacherous beneath.
I do not blame my son for the gradual end of what has been a monumental patience, re-established at great cost to himself, with Nefertiti’s help, after the wild spasm of my brother’s murder. But I fear the result.
I shall go with the rest to the Window of Appearances at three o’clock. He has just sent word that he wants his father and me to stand with them in the opening as he speaks: he wants us to sanction with our presence what he does.
He does not do us the courtesy to tell us what it is.
He does not tell us whether it will be safe or dangerous.
He simply asks us to attend and expects us to comply.
And because, unlike the people, we do truly love him, we will be there.
***
Aye
He calls us again to the Window of Appearances. So many times to that place, so many lavish distributions of gold, so many showings of himself and his family, usually naked and “living in truth”! So much pomp, so many ceremonies! And not only here but throughout the land, for they have traveled far in their attempts to spread the faith of the Aten.
And what has it availed? For ten years he has been Co-Regent, built his temples, called on the people to worship his Universal God … and still the temples are mostly silent and deserted save for a handful of red-robed priests, a few furtive worshipers inclined his way but frightened of Amon, and the sycophants of the Court who model themselves upon Pharaoh, since they must.
I watch them come to the great temple of Aten here, the great temple of Aten at Karnak, dutifully bowing and scraping and bringing their offerings: Pa-ra-nefer, butler and chief craftsman to the Co-Regent; Bek the sculptor and his assistant Tuthmose; Ipy, chief steward of Memphis; Penthu, High Priest of the Aten and chief physician to the King; devious young Tutu, the Foreign Minister; my own son Nakht-Min, assistant to Vizier Ramose; faithful old Ramose himself, face in perpetual grimace with his worries about the increasingly erratic course of the Two Kingdoms; pompous, self-important Mahu, chief of police of Akhet-Aten; Kheruef and Huya, stewards of Queen Tiye; Pin-hasy and Mery-Ra, also high priests of the Aten; Surero, chief steward of Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!); Menna, overseer of crown lands; Kha-em-het, overseer of the granaries of Upper and Lower Kemet; Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, Kaires and the members of the Family, more out of personal loyalty to him than anything else; and, of course, last but certainly not least, the Councilor and Private Secretary Aye, doing his duty as always for the House of Thebes, whom men must call the biggest sycophant of them all.…
Well: am I? He has ordered dug for me in the southern ridge the most elaborate of all the Southern Tombs, indeed of all the tombs of Akhet-Aten save the royal mausoleum itself. I have already had it inscribed: “My lord taught me and I carry out his instructions.” Thus may all men see—for these tombs, unlike those in the necropolis at Thebes, are not secret places but open to public view, and indeed private parties of the people go there all the time to marvel at the way the work progresses—how loyal I am to Pharaoh. Behind the dutifully humble words, of course, a man of fifty-five does not yield his views, his personality or his character—particularly if it is as tenacious as mine—to those of a youth of twenty-five. If that youth is Good God, King and Pharaoh, his elder defers in public and most times in private. But he does not cease to press his ideas when the moments are ripe.
And there still are such moments. He still trusts me, he still depends upon me. Occasionally (though not as often as before) he will fall into contemplative mood in my presence and we will talk philosophically of the future of the Two Lands, of the Aten and of himself. And rather more often than she did before, I estimate, my daughter comes to me with troubled air and we talk alone. For all is no longer well in that marriage.
And all is no longer well in the Two Lands. The gradual erosions that began under the slothful hand of my luxury-loving brother-in-law have spread like an insidious growth through Kemet. My sister has tried valiantly to hold him to duty, to strengthen his resolve, to bring him back to the onerous demands of worthy kingship: he laughs (if he is feeling well), groans (if he is feeling ill) and, in either event, turns her aside with a ruthless gentleness and continues as he pleases. Everywhere the land suffers, and abroad the Empire, always a fragile thing at best, crumbles away.
Weekly, almost daily, it sometimes seems, the dispatches come in, written in the Babylonian cuneiform that serves the world as diplomatic language. Tutu translates them and, at Akhenaten’s orders, sees to it that I receive copies. Their plaint is unanimous and universal, whether they come from Burnaburiash, Tushratta, Rib-Addi of Gebal or the sly and sneaking Aziru of the Amorites who constantly foments trouble north of Damascus. They beg, of course, for gold, since as Tushratta so delicately stated it to my brother-in-law “… in my brother’s land gold is as the dust of the earth.” This may or may not be—some of the mines in Nubia are beginning to assay increasing impurities, and the endless glittering stream that winds through our history may conceivably be receding—but they all think so, and demand it. They also fight constantly among themselves, ignore the attempts of our generals and viceroys to maintain calm along our borders, and generally flaunt the authority of Pharaoh. The reason for this, in my judgment and that of my sister, is very simple: Pharaoh—neither Pharaoh—ever appears among them. The great days and great campaigns of Amose and Tuthmose III (life, health, prosperity to them both!) are long gone. Two weak successors, one old, one young, permit the precious fabric to fray away.
I say two weak successors, yet in truth I think I can only apply the adjective to my brother-in-law. For my nephew is not weak. He is many things, but he is not weak. His powerful personality, though it seems to lie dormant, is no less powerful for that. Lately there are signs it may awaken—but in what direction, no one can predict. Probably not, it seems likely, in the direction of restoring empire, or of restoring the ancient
ma’at
and order of Kemet which have also become sadly frayed in recent years.
The Two Lands drift ever more rapidly as the years speed by. Again, it began under my brother-in-law: it continues under my nephew. He cares no more for administration than his father, as long as the inhabitants of Akhet-Aten remain suitably respectful and he can worship the Aten and ride about his plain, with an occasional visit to Thebes or Memphis to break what he pretends is not the monotony. But I know it is, and I know from his own remarks at unguarded moments, and from my daughter’s increasing unhappiness, that monotony is causing things to happen in the King’s House that may yet become open scandal.
Six daughters are in that house, no sons. The eldest daughter, Merytaten, is ten. In his desperate search for sons, apparently, my nephew took her to bed at nine. A sickly daughter who lived six months resulted. He has not tried again in that fashion, and indeed I believe Merytaten was injured in the delivery to the extent that he will not be able to. But next comes Meketaten, now nine; and although all of this is entirely unknown to Kemet at the moment, my daughter tells me my nephew awaits only the first show of blood to try with her. How long can such things be concealed when he who prides himself on “living in truth” may at any moment abandon the secrecy that so far shrouds the effort?
Meanwhile, he and my daughter continue to appear always together in public, and to maintain the outward show of a warm and united family. And, as much as many families, I suppose they are. What he has done is presumed to be not shocking to our people when it is done by a god, and in our ancient history this is far from the first time such things have happened. But I say with calculation that what he has done “is
presumed to be
not shocking to our people.” I have gone among the people in disguise many, many times over the years as the eyes and ears of Pharaoh, and I know what the people think. The people do not say anything. We in the palaces take them for granted as a vast, anonymous, obedient mass, and that, amazingly, is what they seem to have been through all our history—never complaining, never questioning, never protesting, never rebelling. But they think. And they watch. And they feel. And whether we admit it to ourselves or not, they pass judgments upon us which never surface, but are always there.
Basically they are extremely conservative. They accept the idea of the Good God bringing forth a child upon the body of his daughter because they have been told from infancy that this is what Good Gods sometimes have to do to preserve the purity of the blood of Ra. But I know them. I have sounded them out, I have tested their peasant prejudices. Far down in their hearts where they really judge us, it makes them uneasy, it strikes them as unnatural to the eternal
ma’at
of things, and they do not like it.
So when he comes forth, as I suspect he will someday, to announce that he has been “living in truth” with his own daughters, it will not be accepted. It will be held against him, secretly but profoundly. It would not be if he were his father and had his father’s amiable, easygoing, fervently loved popularity. But he is not his father. He is not loved, my poor Akhenaten; and that is one of his many problems.
And now of late, Nefertiti tells me, he is seeking a “son”—or something, it is not yet clear exactly what—somewhere else. Smenkhkara, too beautiful and too graceful in his lithe golden sleekness for his own good, is becoming the intimate of the King. He is only fifteen, but he is surpassingly fair; and he is not averse to it, so my daughter says. He has always worshiped his older brother. Now they are very often together, not in public view, but secretly, in hidden places. So far, she believes, they only talk, about the Aten and about Kemet, much as he talks to me. But she believes, as I do too, that something else may not be far behind.
Why can he not find a soldier, if that is his desire? They are available by the hundreds and even that, though much less common in our history, is not unknown to Pharaohs. Kaires (it will be awhile before I get over calling him that) has told me frankly that when he is absent on campaigns and far from Sitamon he and Ramesses have not hesitated. It comes and goes, is over in an hour, matters nothing. But when Pharaoh turns to his own House, when god lies with god and the destiny of the House of Thebes and the weal of the Two Kingdoms is involved, then it matters much.
We pray, my daughter and I, that the infatuation, which probably at the moment rests more with Smenkhkara than with him, will pass before it can do harm. Soon Smenkhkara will be married to one of the daughters, probably Merytaten, to secure his own succession to the Double Crown if Akhenaten never produces a son. We hope it will be soon, though marriage does not always prove a preventative in such matters.
She worries about these things, my strikingly beautiful, icily composed, iron-willed daughter, and she worries about others as well. Because, for good or ill, she still adores her husband as she has all her life. She worries, as I do too, about the endless drift he seems to live in, and what will happen when, we both think inevitably, it ends.
Lately to both of us he has given indication that this may not be far off. Three weeks ago he called me to his apartments and suggested that we take a chariot ride (another chariot ride!) to his favorite thinking-place, the high ridge that fronts the Northern Tombs and commands the majestic prospect of the city and the plain. I accepted with alacrity, for it had been some time since we had found opportunity to talk, and I thought I might gain some clue to his attitude and purposes. I was not entirely disappointed, though at moments, as usual, he was cryptic and oblique. But I think I gained a little better understanding of his present mood.
“Uncle,” he said when we were seated in the shade of the row of palms he has ordered planted there, “what would you say I have accomplished, as King of the Two Lands?”
I hesitated, which with his customary sensitivity he instantly perceived: one does not say, “Not much,” to the Good God when he asks such a question. But in his case, of course, the unexpected, as usual, happened. It was the Good God himself who answered his own question:
“Not much …”
I made some sort of protesting No-No sound, but he ignored it and stared out for a long brooding moment upon his domain, which I really believe is more truly his kingdom to him than the whole length of Kemet. Then he repeated with a heavy sigh:
“Not much … But I have tried, Uncle—I have tried. You know that, do you not?”
“Yes, Son of the Sun,” I said gravely, “I do know that. I believe your heart has been good and your purposes sincere.”
“Then why have I accomplished so little?” he asked, the long eyes narrowing in pain as they so often do, but not hooded and defensive as they are with most—open and candid with me, whom he trusts. “Why have the people not understood my purposes? Why have they not followed the urgings of my heart? Do they not see that all I want is to make them happy, that all I wish is for their good? My Father Aten and I have only their welfare in our hearts. Why will they not worship us and let us lead them to the wonderful happiness and peace that belief in us can bring to them?”
Again I hesitated, choosing my words with great care, and again he of course perceived it.
“Tell me frankly, Uncle,” he urged; and then added with his customary dryness, “It has been five years since I cut off a head. Yours is safe.”
“You had cause,” I observed tersely; and went on to speak what was in my heart.
“Nefer-Kheperu-Ra,” I said, “no one, I think, can deny to the King the worship of whatever gods or god he may desire. It is impossible to deny him that, as it is impossible to deny him anything. And I think—and I say it honestly to you, Majesty—that you have not been harsh or cruel in your worship, neither have you imposed it upon the people, neither have you demanded that any follow your lead. You have simply offered the Aten as your Father and yourself as his Son, and have invited all who wished to draw near and worship. And some have.”
“But not many,” he said with sudden bitterness. “Not many, Uncle. Only those who depend upon my favor, only those who want my tolerance and my gold. Only those”—and the heavy lips twisted in a savage scorn—“who tremble at Pharaoh’s frown and seek the crumbs of preference at his feet. Not the people, Uncle:
not the people.
You say it is impossible to deny the King anything. There is a thing, the one thing they
can
deny me: they have denied me their love, and they have denied it to my Father Aten … and I am wondering, Uncle,” he said, and abruptly, quite chillingly, his voice dropped to a softer and more thoughtful register, “if it is not time for me to require it of them. What say you to that?”
“Son of the Sun,” I said, and though I am twenty-five years older than I was on the day I similarly defied his father, I spoke unhesitatingly and with a conviction that overrode, if it did not eliminate, fear, “I say to that, that such a course would be insanity. Yes!” I repeated sharply as he swung and stared at me with eyes suddenly widened in fury. “Insanity! That would truly destroy the Aten—and yourself. They would hate you for it. They would never forgive you. They would never love you. You cannot win love for yourself and your god in that fashion. Do not do it, Son of the Sun!
Do not do it!
”