A God Against the Gods (32 page)
Read A God Against the Gods Online
Authors: Allen Drury
My cousin—my “big brother” as I shall still always consider him—bows low to me and to the crowd, his eyes still filled with tears, his face still contorted with many emotions. Again he bows to them, again to me, and then steps quietly back to stand beside his father; seeming somehow to have acquired a new dignity and stature, which of course he has, and to have almost grown physically in our eyes. I am very pleased: he has always served me well and he will continue to do so. My rule rests on several solid rocks. Kaires—Horemheb, as I must come to remember—is approaching his father as the most solid of them all.
“People of Kemet,” I resume presently when they have again become quiet, “I wish now to tell you of my plans to give to you a son who may someday succeed me on the throne of the Two Lands when eventually I return to my Father Aten.”
Behind me I can sense a stirring among the Family. I turn and smile at Nefertiti and am amazed to find that her eyes look suddenly stricken. This is unfair and unjust to me. My face, I am afraid, hardens as I turn back. Strongly I speak:
“As you know, the Chief Wife Nefer-Neferu-Aten and I have no sons, though we have six daughters who bear the blood of Ra. It is to them I must look for sons.”
For a moment there is silence, broken then by a rising swell of murmurs and exclamations as they realize my meaning. Yet why should they exclaim? It is not unusual in our history (witness most recently my father and my sister Sitamon—though there, true, the purpose was not sons, which he has, but legitimacy to the throne).
I do not look at Nefertiti now: there would be no point. I proceed, living in truth in their eyes and in yours, Father Aten, as you wish me to do.
“With the Princess Merytaten I have already had a child. This child was a daughter. Unfortunately it died young. I am told the Princess Merytaten will be unable to bear further children. Accordingly on this day I declare my marriage to my second daughter, the Princess Meketaten, whom I dearly love, and who I hope will bear me sons.”
And I turn, again avoiding Nefertiti’s eyes, and beckon to Meketaten. Shyly the nine-year-old comes forward, looking a little frightened but also pleased (as who would not, to be a Queen of the Two Lands?). I take her hand, raise our hands together before the crowd and say:
“I so decree it!”
There is a curious sound, part applause, part hesitation, part—I do not know. It cannot be disapproval, for I hope to give them a son. And it is in our history.
Again I raise our linked hands, while Meketaten shyly smiles. And now there is a burst of shouts and applause, although in it I still think I detect something hesitant, reserved, withheld. But I cannot worry about that, Father Aten. It is done, as it must be done, in truth in the eyes of the world and in your eyes.
Gravely I lean down and kiss my daughter full on the mouth. A curious little sigh escapes the crowd. I gesture her tenderly back to stand with her mother and sisters. This time my eyes and those of Nefertiti meet. She is looking at me as at a complete stranger. Momentarily I regret this: but it must be done.
And now, Father Aten, I come at last to you, and to our glorious moment together, in which all things will be made clear and all things made right.
“People of Kemet!” I say once more, and now there is an absolutely intent, enwrapt silence. Now they
really
do not know what to expect, I have given them such wonders already. This is one both practical and lovely. And it, too, is something that must be done.
“People of Kemet,” I repeat, and my voice at last threatens to croak with emotion, though I fight it as best I can, “for ten years I have been your King and for ten years I have commended to you the worship of my Father Aten. For ten years my family and I have worshiped him, and have been joined by some of you. But always we have been opposed by the priesthood of Amon. Always there have been resentment and whispering and secret attempts to thwart us.
“We have done nothing to Amon, but Amon has not rested in his attempts to weaken us. I have been infinitely patient with this betrayal. But now—now”—and here my voice grows thicker with excitement and emotion and their attention, if possible, becomes more intense—“
now this must stop!
”
I pause, and off to one side of the crowd where stands doddering old Maya, High Priest of Amon, propped up by a small group of his white-robed fellows, there is a stirring and a quivering as they fear, and rightly, what may come.
Through the crowd runs a murmuring and a wonderment: Horse Face the Ever-Patient is angry at last!
“Therefore I, Akhenaten, Living Horus, Son of the Sun, King of the Two Lands, do decree and establish:
“That from this day all the wealth of Amon shall be divided in equal portions, half and half, with my Father Aten.”
There is a gasping and groaning from Maya and his sycophants, an agitation and a stirring—and, finally, a shout of approval, begun by Nakht-Min and Ramose, standing just below the balcony, which is taken up and carried back through the crowd until it overwhelms all other sound. I expect it may be only duty, but at least it is there—public approval, public affirmation. It is what I need. I go on, my voice steadying and becoming clearer.
“I do decree and establish further that from this day forward one half the priests of Amon shall be separated from the temples of Amon and shall be assigned to the temples of the Aten, so that my Father Aten may be suitably worshiped and glorified throughout the length and breadth of my kingdom.
“To my dear cousin the General Horemheb, King’s Scribe, King’s Steward, Master of the Works and Commander of the Troops of the King, I give the duty of seeing that these things are done as I decree, through all the length and breadth of Kemet, throughout the Two Lands, from the Delta to the Fourth Cataract and wherever on this earth the writ of the Living Horus runs.
“I so decree it!”
I pause to give them time to digest this, turning to glance at Kaires—Horemheb, rather—whose face has turned pale with the shock of these sudden new responsibilities, but whose eyes meet mine unflinchingly as he bows low with impassive and impressive dignity. Beside him my uncle Aye, whose compromise this is, meets my eyes with equally impassive air and, imperceptibly to all save me, nods, ever so slightly, approval. I turn back to look for Maya and his priests, but they have already slunk away.
And so now, Father Aten, I come finally to the secret we have known together in these recent months. I come finally to your Hymn, which I have conceived with my own mind and written with my own hand, and which all men hereafter shall recite in your temples and to your glory, forever and ever, for millions and millions of years.
“People of Kemet!” I cry, and now my damnable voice is really choked and cracking with emotion. But I force myself to go on, as I have had to force myself to do almost everything in my life, it seems to me. “I call upon you now to hear the Hymn which I have devised to my Father Aten, which all his priests in all his temples, and all of the people of Kemet everywhere, will from this day forward address to him. Listen to me well, for it shall be the framework and the charter of your days, now and for all times hereafter.”
I pause, take a deep breath, sip deeply of water from the golden cup that Smenkhkara steps forward to hand to me, as I have instructed him. I feel suddenly that I can trust my voice, that you are with me, and slowly and clearly I say these beautiful words to you, my Father Aten:
“To Aten, the Living, the Great, Lord of Jubilees, Master of all that the Sun-Disk encircles, Lord of Heaven and Earth, Giving Life Forever and Ever!
“
Thou arisest fair in the horizon of Heaven, O Living Aten, Beginner of Life. When thou dawnest in the East, thou fillest every land with thy beauty. Thou art indeed comely, great, radiant and high over every land. Thy rays embrace the lands to the full extent of all that thou hast made, for thou art Ra and thou attainest their limits and subdueth them for thy beloved son, Akhenaten. Thou art remote yet thy rays are upon the earth. Thou art in the sight of men, yet thy ways are not known.
“
When thou settest in the Western horizon, the earth is in darkness after the manner of death. Men spend the night indoors with the head covered, the eye not seeing its fellow. Their possessions might be stolen, even when under their heads, and they would be unaware of it. Every lion comes forth from its lair and all snakes bite. Darkness is the only light, and the earth is silent when their Creator rests in his habitation.
“
The earth brightens when thou arisest in the Eastern horizon and shinest forth as the Aten in day-time. Thou drivest away the night when thou givest forth thy beams. The Two Lands are in festival. They awake and stand upon their feet for thou hast raised them up. They wash their limbs, they put on raiment and raise their arms in adoration at thy appearance. The entire earth performs its labors. All cattle are at peace in their pastures. The trees and herbage grow green. The birds fly from their nests, their wings raised in praise of thy spirit. All animals gambol on their feet, all the winged creation live when thou hast risen for them. The boats sail upstream, and likewise downstream. All ways open at thy dawning. The fish in the river leap in thy presence. Thy rays are in the midst of the sea.
“
Thou it is who causest women to conceive and maketh seed into man, who giveth life to the child in the womb of its mother, who comforteth him so that he cries not therein, nurse that thou art, even in the womb, who giveth breath to quicken all that he hath made. When the child comes forth from the body on the day of his birth, then thou openest his mouth completely and thou furnisheth his sustenance. When the chick in the egg chirps within the shell, thou givest him the breath within it to sustain him. Thou createst for him his proper term within the egg, so that he shall break it and come forth from it to testify to his completion when he runs about on his two feet when he emerges.
“
How manifold are thy works! They are hidden from the sight of men, O Sole God, like unto whom there is no other! Thou didst fashion the earth according to thy desire when thou wast alone
—
all men, all cattle great and small, all that are upon the earth that run upon their feet or rise up on high flying with their wings. And the lands of Syria and Kush and Kemet
—
thou appointest every man to his place and satisfieth his needs. Everyone receives his sustenance and his days are numbered. Their tongues are diverse in speech and their qualities likewise, and their color is differentiated for thou hast distinguished the nations.
“
Thou makest the waters under the earth and thou bringest them forth as the Nile at thy pleasure to sustain the people of Kemet even as thou hast made them live for thee, O Divine Lord of them all, toiling for them, the Lord of every land, shining forth for them, the Aten Disk of the day-time, great in majesty!
“
All distant foreign lands, also, thou createst their life. Thou hast placed a Nile in heaven to come forth for them and make a flood upon the mountains like the sea in order to water the fields of their villages. How excellent are thy plans, O Lord of Eternity!
—
a Nile in the sky is thy gift to the foreigners and to the beasts of their lands; but the true Nile flows from under the earth for Kemet.
“
Thy beams nourish every field and when thou shinest they live and grow for thee. Thou makest the seasons in order to sustain all that thou hast made, the winter to cool them, the summer heat that they may taste of thy quality. Thou hast made heaven afar off that thou mayest behold all that thou hast made when thou wast alone, appearing in thy aspect of the Living Aten, rising and shining forth. Thou makest millions of forms out of thyself, towns, villages, fields, roads, the river. All eyes behold thee before them, for thou art the Aten of the day-time, above all that thou hast created.
“
Thou art in my heart, but there is none other who knoweth thee save thy son Akhenaten. Thou hast made him wise in thy plans and thy power!
”
So do I conclude my prayer to thee, my Father Aten; and over all is a great hush, for they have been following my words with great intentness; and no thing stirs.
“From this day forward,” I say quietly, and so still is it that I need raise my voice hardly at all to carry to the farthest limits, and blessed art thou, O Aten, for my voice is steady and sure:
“From this day forward, all men shall worship Aten the Father and Akhenaten his Son, in all their temples and in all their highways and byways, and on the river, and on the earth, and in the sky, and wherever men shall live, forever and ever hereafter, for millions and millions of years.
“The Living Horus so decrees it!”
And I bow gravely to them as they remain absolutely silent and wide-eyed before me. I turn and gesture to the Family, they turn and precede me. We disappear within.
And behind me as I go there begins, at first faint but then gathering force like the coming of a storm, a sibilant whispering and exclamation that grows and swells and rises at my back until I reach my apartments, and the great gilded doors are closed, and I hear it no more.
And it is done.
***
Kia
I sit beside the old lady, who is dying, and I wonder what has happened at the Window of Appearances. We are quite far from the Great Palace, here in the small palace built by my husband for his parents, and no one has come to tell me. I was not invited to attend—indeed, I am seldom invited to anything, and I really wonder often why he ever bothered to marry me, so little does he see of me and so rarely does he deign to correspond with my father, who sent me here with such high, naïve hopes that I would somehow procure for him the friendship and the gold of strange Naphuria.
Strange Naphuria has other things on his mind, and I am least of all his concerns, of that I am quite sure. The days have stretched on into years, five of them, now, and each is more empty and more boring than the last. I cling, because I must do so to keep my sanity, to the advice good Gilukhipa gave me before she also died, two years ago.
“Life has little here for a Queen who is not a Princess of Kemet. These people think themselves superior to all beings who walk the earth, they despise anyone who is not of Kemet, they look down upon us all. Particularly is this true of the young Pharaoh and Nefertiti. So pay them no attention. Make your own life. Concern yourself with the Family as much as you can—be helpful and kind to its other members, most of whom are also kind when they are not involved in ceremony. Involve yourself with the children, be a friend to his brothers who may someday rule—above all, be a friend to Kaires and to Sitamon, whose friend I have been, and whose friendship has done much to keep
me
sane. And do not worry if Akhenaten never comes near you. In fact, be thankful, for he is very strange and not as other men—stranger even than a god should be strange, for if gods are to be understood and worshiped they must be at least a little like men. And Akhenaten is like no other man. He is unique, and it is well to stay far from him … even though,” she added thoughtfully, a surprising sadness coming into her voice, “it is impossible sometimes not to feel pity for him. He has not had an easy life.”
I have tried to follow her advice, and I have even come in time to understand her final comment; for I, too, sense the deep underlying sadness of Naphuria’s life, which he carefully conceals on most occasions but which now and again breaks through in unexpected ways. I believe the sculptor Bek has caught it best of all in the colossi that stand at Karnak. I am surprised, in fact, that Naphuria has let them stand, for deep in their brooding expression much of his inner pain is apparent to those who are sensitive enough to see it. I believe he must be aware of this, for he is very sensitive himself—at least where he himself is concerned—and he must know how revealing these stone portraits are. It as though once again he were saying, “Here I am, living in truth. Take me or leave me: thus am I.”
I concluded long ago that he was too complex for me to understand. I decided that was Nefertiti’s task, and I have been happy that it has been a very long time since he expected me to share in it. He visited me a few times in my bedchamber, a process I did my best to assist him with—because, of course, if
I
were to bear him a son, I should suddenly be something very much more important than just a minor forgotten Queen from Mesopotamia—but I was unable to conceal my distaste, not having been trained and schooled for it all my life as the Chief Wife was. I tried very, very hard, but as I say: he is very sensitive where he himself is concerned, particularly where his physical deformities are concerned; and he knew. He knew. I never conceived, and the last time, which now is almost three years ago, he actually apologized to me, after. There was something so abject in this that I could not help but burst into tears: I knew then very well what Gilukhipa meant. He cried too, and for a few fleeting moments we clung to one another in a genuine love and sympathy. But then he arose awkwardly, refusing my assistance; the usual mask come down over his face; his eyes again became hooded; the moment passed. He never came near me again, nor have I made any attempt to seek a private audience with him. Sometimes he asks me to be present at the Window of Appearances, once in a great while he invites me to join him and Nefertiti and the girls on one of their picnics or on a furious chariot dash around the city to observe the builders’ progress. But most of the time we leave one another strictly alone, only a moment’s melancholy touching us both when we happen to meet accidentally in the corridors of the palace and exchange brief, formal greetings as we pass.
So I have, as good Gilukhipa suggested, busied myself with the rest of the Family, and have not been too alone or too unhappy. Sitamon and Kaires are very kind, the Councilor Aye is also kind if somewhat remote, the old Pharaoh and the Great Wife, in their rather absent-minded fashion these days, have sometimes gone out of their way to include me in things, and of course to always laughing Smenkhkara and gurgling little Tutankhaten I am, I think, a genuinely loved “big sister” whom they often include in their games. And I have my ladies in waiting with whom I gossip, and my knitting and spinning, and my jewels and my musical instruments and my comfortable quarters, and good food and good wine—the years pass. Now and again I receive a letter from my father asking anxiously if I am all right. I always answer cheerfully that I am; and this, I suppose, is as near the truth as it is when anyone on this earth says it to anyone else. And actually I should be thankful, I am much better off than most: I shall never want, I shall live all my days in luxury and be buried with these gods-on-earth. I cannot complain.
The old lady stirs and groans, and instantly I am at her side inquiring gently, “My I get you something, Majesty?”
Queen Mother Mutemwiya is sixty-seven and dying of some wasting disease our superstitious quacks can neither diagnose nor treat; and in the past few months, as the illness has attacked her frail body with ever increasing savagery, she and I have become very close. No one else in the Family has had the time—or, perhaps, the courage—to sit with her day in and day out and watch her shrink away. I think it has been just too painful for them, because I know they genuinely love her. Yet aside from an occasional dutiful visit at intervals several weeks apart, her son and the Great Wife have almost never appeared in her room, and the others have been similarly preoccupied. Only Kaires makes it a point to visit her on every possible occasion. He and I together are the concluding solace of this tiny little bag of bones that once was a very great Queen who ruled with her husband over a very great empire.
Now she awakens at the sound of my voice. Her eyes, shrewd and intelligent still in the sunken face, light with a little smile as, after a moment, she recognizes me.
“Just a little wine, dear,” she whispers, and carefully I pour it into a cup, place my hand under her head and lift it gently so that she can sip a few drops before she signals with her eyes that she has had enough, and I let her gently down again.
“Have you heard what he said today at the Window of Appearances?” she whispers. I shake my head.
“No, Majesty.”
“You did not go?” she inquires, forgetting that I told her this before she dropped off into her increasingly deep sleep a couple of hours ago.
“No, Majesty. He did not invite me.”
“My grandson is—” She pauses and searches for the word, cannot find it, and with a faint but visible annoyance with the mind that no longer responds, abandons the attempt.
“Yes,” I agree with a smile, “he is.”
This amuses her, and together we laugh, I aloud and she with a very faint, very fragile humor that momentarily crinkles the paper-thin skin stretched so tightly across the tired old bones. She starts to say something else, hesitates, and in the interval is distracted as the door swings open without announcement and on the threshold Kaires stands. Now she smiles again, a deep and genuine fondness in her eyes. I start to rise, but he gestures me down again with a kindly firmness.
“Majesty,” he says, bowing to Mutemwiya and gently kissing her tiny hand. “Majesty,” he says to me, bowing and kissing mine. “You must both hear what has happened this day at the Window of Appearances. His Majesty has provided us with several wonders, and I thought you both should know.”
And he sits down, still holding the Queen Mother’s hand gently in his strong, brown-skinned one, and generously and patiently tells us of the day.
When he has concluded neither of us speaks for several moments. Then with that faintest of smiles, the Queen Mother whispers:
“I shall not be here long enough to learn to call you Horemheb. You must not mind if I still use Kaires.”
“Majesty,” he says, in that little game we all play with the dying and which the dying so gallantly play with us, “you must not say such things! You will be about again, and you will learn to call me Horemheb with the best of them! But in the meantime,” he adds with a gentle smile, “I shall not feel at all hurt if you continue to call me Kaires.”
“Good,” she whispers. “It would be hard to break the habit of twenty-five years.…” A frown, faint like all her expressions now, but still unmistakable, creases the ghostly-gray forehead. “You must serve my grandson well, but if—if—”
She pauses and we both lean closer to the bed.
“Yes?” he asks, suddenly intent.
“If you find that he is destroying Kemet, then”—her eyes open full and she returns his stare with the terrible intensity of those who wish to impart final instructions before they go—“then … you must not hesitate.”
He gives me a quick sharp look which says, as if in so many words:
I
trust you with this confidence forever
—I nod gravely—and he turns back to the tiny figure on the bed.
“Majesty,” he says, “I shall not hesitate. On that I give you the pledge of Kaires and the word of Horemheb.”
Her eyes open wide again, she clutches his hand with a sudden surprising strength, half raises herself in a fashion we thought we would never see again, cries with a startling loudness, “
You must not hesitate!
”—clings for a second to his hand—suddenly relinquishes it and falls back—utters a long, rattling sigh—and is gone.
For many minutes we remain silent beside the bed, heads bowed, weeping. Finally he rises, gently draws the sheet over her face, holds out his hand, takes mine and raises me slowly to my feet.
“In your presence, Majesty,” he says somberly, “and in hers, I pledge once more:
I will not hesitate.…
And now, come. We must call the servants, spread the news, begin the preparation of all things suitable for the safe passage into the afterworld of this very great Queen and very dear lady, our friend Mutemwiya.”
***