A God Against the Gods (37 page)

Amonhotep,
Son of Hapu

There is a long silence while he stares at us, the narrow eyes moving impassively from face to face. I am standing a little behind the Family, as befits my high yet secondary station. It seems to me that his eyes dwell upon mine an extra moment. I suddenly see a happy, healthy little boy, my beloved pupil, head flung back, mouth open in generous, excited laughter, running headlong down the palm-lined pathways of Malkata. Perhaps Pharaoh sees him too, because for a split second his eyes seem to reveal, only to me, a deeply hidden anguish. He shifts position a little. As if on signal we all do the same. Quietly he holds out the crook and flail to Smenkhkara and says softly, “Brother, take these for me.” The golden youth accepts them proudly and stacks them carefully against the wall. The King turns to the Great Wife, bows gravely and says:

“Mother, you wished to speak with me. Do you wish us all to speak together?”

Queen Tiye’s voice trembles a little but she holds it firm, bows in return and holds out her arms.

“I do,” she says, “but first may your mother have a kiss?”

“Majesty,” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse with emotion; steps forward, leans down and kisses her gravely on the cheek. She hugs him with a sudden fierce hunger which, abruptly, he returns with a naked desperation that is profoundly touching. It lasts but a moment, he releases her and steps back. Their faces become formal, almost stern, again.

“Can we not all sit?” he asks then. “Are there enough chairs?”

There obviously are. The Great Wife has had them arranged in a semicircle, her small, ornate throne at its center. Facing the rest is a single chair, the small private throne occupied on so many informal occasions by Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!) in happier times.

Silently we all take our places flanking the Queen, Aye on her right hand, Nefertiti on her left, the rest of us, including Smenkhkara, dispersed along the half circle.

This does not please Akhenaten.

“Brother,” he says, and it as though no one else were in the room, so directly and nakedly does he speak only to him, “I should appreciate it if you would bring your chair and sit beside me.”

“Yes, Son of the Sun,” Smenkhkara says quickly, and quickly lifts his chair and places it alongside his brother’s. Another silence falls as they stare at us calmly and without expression, Smenkhkara a little defiantly, a little on edge, but taking his cue from his brother and attempting to keep his face impassive though he does not quite look any of us in the eye. Akhenaten does, and it is obvious that he has come prepared, alerted by instinct and intelligence, for whatever may impend.

“Now,” he says quietly, “you wish us to speak, Mother. Pray begin.”

“My son,” she says, and now her voice is as steady and impersonal as his, “tomorrow your father goes beneath the ground and you become at last beyond all challenge sole and only King and Pharaoh of the Two Lands. It has seemed suitable to me that the Family discuss with you and”—she hesitates the tiniest second, then goes firmly on—“with your brother, how you intend to conduct yourselves in the days to come. For on the answer depends the future of Kemet and of this House.”

Again there is silence while we all stare at them intently, not knowing what explosion—or evasion—this may produce. But we might have known that from Akhenaten, living as always, as he fancies, “in truth,” there would come an answer direct and unequivocal.

“I shall continue to conduct myself,” he says quietly, “as what I am, the Living Horus and Son of the Sun. I shall continue to conduct myself as my Father Aten directs me, to the greater glory and strength of Kemet and our House.”

“And I shall continue to conduct myself,” Smenkhkara says, patterning himself upon his adored older brother, “as the Good God directs, and I too shall work always for the greater good and glory of Kemet and of our House.”

The Great Wife seems momentarily taken aback by the contrast between noble purpose and actual practice. There is no doubt they are both absolutely sincere, which opens vistas of rationalization that are quite appalling when one stops to think about them. To her aid comes her brother, thinner, slower, graying, seeming to gain in dignity, stature and statesmanship the older he grows.

“Is it your belief, Son of the Sun,” he asks quietly, “that the course you and Smenkhkara have pursued these two years past
really
is good for Kemet and
really
reflects credit on this House?”

“What is that course, Uncle?” the King inquires, and his tone is dangerous now, and promising storms to come. But Aye is not Aye for nothing, and he proceeds, quite calmly and matter-of-factly, to spell it out.

“It is said—” he begins, but Akhenaten interrupts.

“Do not tell me what is ‘said’!” he orders sharply. “Tell me what
you
think, Uncle. You have never been one to evade.”

“No more will I now,” Aye agrees, his voice still calm and only the whitened knuckles on his chair arms revealing the tension he feels. “I think”—and he pauses to look gravely from one end of our little half circle to the other—“and I think we all think—that you and Smenkhkara are not wise to continue this association of yours. We think it not wise in any sense, but most seriously do we think that it is not wise to continue it, and conduct it, in the public view. You cause much talk and unrest in the Two Lands, thereby. You weaken the crown, you weaken this House, you weaken”—his voice rises and so does his warning hand as Pharaoh shifts angrily on his father’s throne—“the kingdom you have inherited and whose supreme head you now are. It is not necessary. It is not wise. It will destroy you both if you do not swiftly bring it to an end.” His voice softens and almost breaks with sadness as he concludes. “I hope you will believe me, Nefer-Kheperu-Ra, when I say that I utter these harsh things with great reluctance and only out of eternal love for you and your brother, whom I have had about my house and playing at my knee since you both were very tiny babies, and very dear to me.”

Again there is silence, which lengthens as Akhenaten studies him, while Smenkhkara, a little shamefaced but trying to show a defiant bravado, stares at the floor and plays absently with the tassel on his ceremonial belt.

“Uncle,” Pharaoh says at last, and his voice is low and filled with emotion also, “I appreciate the spirit in which you speak, and the love you bear for Smenkhkara and me. I do not doubt that love. I do not doubt it”—and suddenly he looks full at Nefertiti who pales but does not change her set, unyielding expression—“from anyone. But”—and the hope that had begun to grow in all our hearts sinks away—“you do not understand about—about—everything.”

“What are we to understand?” Nefertiti demands suddenly, and her voice is clear and angry. “What every sniggering gossip in Kemet understands? Or is there something higher and more mystical we are supposed to believe in?”

“
We
believe in it,” Akhenaten answers very quietly. “I am sorry if you do not, for you are my dear wife, mother to my daughters—”

“Not the only mother to your daughters!” Nefertiti snaps, and Queen Tiye, alarmed, places a gently restraining hand upon her arm. But she shakes it off and plunges on. “Not the only mother to your daughters, and not the only companion of your bed! You have Kia and any girl in the kingdom you wish to command. Why is it necessary to humiliate me by turning to your own—”

“Am I not being humiliated right now?” Pharaoh shouts with an answering anger, his voice going into the croak that overtakes it when great emotion comes. “
This
is not humiliating, to be brought before the Family as before the Forty-Two Judges of the Dead, and be called to answer for my life? And this to the Living Horus, this to the King! How dare you?
How dare you all?
”

It is the greatest display of sheer anger any of us has ever seen Akhenaten show, and we are struck dumb by it and by a sudden genuine terror of what he may do. This is increased when Smenkhkara, still playing with his tassel, still not looking up, says in a soft and deliberately mocking voice:

“You must remember he is the only Pharaoh now. You must not forget this … for it is the case.”

Abruptly Horemheb leans forward in his chair and inquires in clear, cold, level tones:

“Shall I kill them all, O Son of the Sun? Would that solve your problem? Say the word: I am yours to command.”

His eyes lock with those of Akhenaten, and for a long time, it seems, they stare at one another. But, unlike that other occasion long ago, the contest does not end with automatic victory of Pharaoh. Horemheb’s eyes do not drop, he does not concede the enormity of his challenge. Akhenaten’s also remain steady, it is obvious he will not yield either. Presently he speaks, more quietly. A certain contempt is in his voice, for he is indeed the only Pharaoh now.

“Do not be a fool, Cousin,” he says in an offhand manner that makes Horemheb flush, though now he prudently holds his tongue. “I am not a killing Pharaoh … unless,” he adds thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving Horemheb’s, “I should find myself too much provoked.…” His eyes swing at last away, back to the Great Wife, sitting upright and rigid on her throne. “Mother! Is this all you wished to say to me tonight?”

“We wished to plead with you, my son,” she answers quietly, “for a return to sanity as you assume the full power of the Double Crown. I will concede”—and it is obvious the concession costs her greatly, but she says it firmly and seems to mean it—“that there may exist a perfectly deep and genuine love between you and your brother—even such—such a love as—as you seem to have. But certainly you must know that it can be no more deep and genuine than the love we all feel for you both. Does not that give us
some
right to speak to you,
some
right to be heard,
some
right to hope our words may be taken as sincerely and helpfully as they are meant? I should not like to think my sons had grown so alien to us in their love for one another that we can no longer reason with them, for the good of Kemet and this House … and,” she concludes quietly, “for
their
good, which to me, who am still their mother, means more than all.”

“We know that,” Smenkhkara blurts out in an anguished tone before Akhenaten can answer, and now he seems not the defiant beloved but only a forlorn youth suddenly crushed by the heavy weight of emotions in the room. “Mother, we
know
that!”

“Then why—” the Great Wife protests, but this time it is Pharaoh who answers.

“Because our Father Aten—”

“Forget your ‘Father Aten,’” she snaps, “and remember your responsibilities in this world!”

But now, it is clear, emotion has proved too much. She has gone too far. She has said the wrong thing. She has attacked the sacred name. A mother’s anguish has made her challenge the god who, in her son’s mind, is unchallengeable.

To his brother he holds out a hand that visibly trembles and indicates his wish to rise. Smenkhkara stands up, strong and lithe, perfect features drawn and tense in the flickering light of the wall torches, muscles rippling smoothly as he virtually hoists the awkward body beside him to its feet.

Silence, tense, quivering, absolute, enfolds us all.

Pharaoh stares at us one by one, his narrowed eyes moving carefully along our now frightened half circle. He can indeed order us all killed if he so desires. Perhaps he will … but of course he does not: he is still Akhenaten. But he is an Akhenaten transported out of himself once more by such an anger as we have never seen in him.

Finally his mouth, which has repeatedly tried to form words and been stopped each time by too much feeling, steadies. His voice comes heavy and slow, at moments almost unintelligible, so great is the weight of anger it carries.

“Smenkhkara and I,” he manages to grate out while we stare at him with wide, affrighted eyes, “will live in truth as we please. I shall rule this land as my Father Aten directs me. I will never—never—discuss these things with you again:
never.
Do not
ever
mention them to me again, or I will—I will—”

But then emotion overwhelms him, his voice gives out. His eyes are filled with tears of rage, his face works terribly. We are left to imagine the awful struggle between vengeance and reason that must be swirling in his heart. I am sure the thought strikes the others as it does me:
How utterly alone he is
—
how utterly alone we must make him feel!
And with it, finally, come the other thoughts that from now on will, I am sure, be inseparably linked with that first thought in all our minds:

But how much of it comes from him! How much of it is his own fault! Akhenaten is many things
—
and some are great
—
but how tragically, fatally flawed he is.…

At last Queen Tiye rises calmly to her feet. She speaks in a clear and steady voice, deliberately emptied of all emotion, deliberately returning us to the principal duty of this sad night.

“It is time to go to the House of Vitality. It is time to see the Good God placed within his sarcophagi.”

She looks at me. I step quickly to the door, clap hands for servants. They come at once with torches.

The Great Wife steps forward to her sons, the one so glittering and misshapen in his regalia, the other so sleek and beautiful as he stares at her wide-eyed, looking no longer insolent now, but terribly young and uncertain in the glancing light. With great dignity she places herself between them, a hand on the arm of each.

Head held high, she takes a step. They follow.

And so our procession forms, and passes in the dancing shadows along the brightly painted mud-brick corridors of Malkata, which once knew so many happy times but now hold little but sorrow and uncertainty for the once all-powerful Eighteenth Dynasty and the haunted House of Thebes.

***