“Highness, Majesty, the nilometers are showing a small rise in the level of the river! Isis is crying!”
Smenkhara stared at him, a great gush of warmth spreading through his chest. “How small a rise?”
Panhesy indicated a height of about that of a finger.
Akhenaten had groped for Smenkhara’s waist and was clinging to him. “The curse is lifted, the god is appeased,” he said brokenly. “Later I will go to the temple and give thanks, but now… Smenkhara, where are you going? Stay with me, I beg!” But Smenkhara had torn himself free of his brother’s grip and was running out the door before he could be ordered to remain. He pelted along the corridors, aware of the smiling faces that sped by him in a blur, the arms raised in thanksgiving, the voices shouting, weeping happily, singing prayers. Behind him his Followers, sandal bearer, herald, and steward tumbled after. Rushing past the guards at the entrance to Meritaten’s apartments, he went to the doors of her chamber and burst within.
“Majesty, Isis is crying!” he yelled but came to an abrupt halt. Meritaten did not even look up. She sat with head hanging, both hands clasping the limp fingers of her daughter. Meritaten-ta-sherit was dead.
The preparations for yet another royal funeral went almost unnoticed as the city’s entire attention was riveted on the notched stone markers sunk at regular intervals along the banks of the river. The rhythms of the day and night ceased to have meaning. While Akhenaten’s daughter was bound and her coffins hastily prepared, crowds sat or lay beside the river under the shade of improvised shelters, occasionally breaking into song or dance but more often quietly tense, their eyes never straying far from the surface of the still fouled, stinking water. Peddlers displaying cheap baubles suitable for offerings of thanksgiving moved among them, doing a brisk trade. Wine sellers quickly cleared their stocks. The city became happily drunk, and the streets were full of weaving, laughing people. At night torches were lit. No one went home. In the palace, only Meritaten mourned quietly for her daughter. The courtiers threw large parties, the guests staggering from the ruins of one to the fresh wine and new musicians of another. Mutnodjme had an enormous raft hurriedly built, garlanded with white ribbons, and tethered to Horemheb’s water steps. She had also ordered that a marked board be nailed to one of the supports, and her dwarfs took turns clambering down to the water to call up the readings. At each new inch gained, a cheer went up, and the crowd packed on the gently rocking raft raised their cups to Isis, who had relented. All over Egypt, men stood gazing at the slowly filling banks in a stupefied wonder, like souls in the dark horror of the Duat suddenly finding themselves given a second chance at life. Egypt rose from death on the miraculous, silent swelling of the dark current.
Meritaten-ta-sherit’s funeral was almost forgotten in the tumult of rejoicing. Smenkhara stood with his arm around Meritaten as the rites were performed and the little coffin was carried so pitifully easily into the darkness. Pharaoh attended but sat in silence, nodding occasionally or rocking briefly, and no one knew whether he was truly aware of what was happening to his child.
At the end of Khoyak, when the Nile began to brim over and cover the thirsty fields, Ankhesenpaaten gave birth to a girl. The nobles crowding the bedchamber to witness for Egypt were still in a festive mood, and there was much joking and laughter as they sat on the floor gambling or playing board games while the little princess cried and strained. Her labor was almost as long as Meketaten’s had been, and when it was over, she was too weak to acknowledge Ay’s congratulations or Meritaten’s kiss. Akhenaten, though he had been notified that the birth was imminent, did not attend it, and Ankhesenpaaten’s servants were secretly relieved.
Pharaoh devoted himself, when he was not in the grip of his madness, to Smenkhara. He had turned the young man into an amulet, a lucky charm, clinging to him both emotionally and physically as his health deteriorated. He ordered the prince to move into a small suite of rooms adjacent to the royal apartments. Smenkhara complied, hoping that his brother would then feel safer and relinquish the stranglehold that was driving the prince mad, but Pharaoh only clung to him more tightly. Ankhesenpaaten was still too unwell to share the royal bed, even if Akhenaten had desired her. Like his father before him, he seemed to draw a kind of mysterious power from the young man’s body. Smenkhara nursed his shame, appearing with Pharaoh draped over him at the Window of Appearances when the king made his increasingly infrequent progresses to the temple but otherwise hiding in the half-light of his cramped quarters, snarling and striking out at anyone who approached him. Meritaten had come to him once, but he had cursed even her with such venom that she had retreated in tears. The fellahin might be scraping together what seed they had left, the trees might be flushing with a green that had not been seen in nearly three years, the shadufs might once more be pouring glittering wet life onto the withered royal lawns, but at the heart of Egypt there still lay a cankerous darkness.
Horemheb pushed past Smenkhara’s guards with a sharp word, slammed the heavy cedar doors closed behind him, and bowed perfunctorily at the prince’s back. Smenkhara was standing at the window with his arms folded, staring out past the roofed and pillared walkway at the sunlit private garden beyond. Although the room was warm, he was swathed in thick white linen that he was clutching tightly to himself. He gave no sign that he had heard someone enter. Horemheb waited for a moment and then said politely, “Highness.”
“Get out, Commander.”
Horemheb came up to him and bowed again. “Your forgiveness, Highness, but I cannot leave until I have obtained your seal on this document.”
Smenkhara’s eyes flicked to it and away again. “You will leave immediately and take it with you.”
Thoughtfully Horemheb’s eyes traveled the sulky, swollen mouth, the faint purple mark of a fading bruise on the tall neck, the tension of the fingers buried in the creased linen. He stepped forward, interposing himself between the prince and the window, and Smenkhara backed away.
“Pharaoh will not live forever,” he said gently. He would have continued, but Smenkhara’s face suddenly twisted into a grimace of spite.
“How dare you pity me!” he hissed. “Me, a prince of the blood and heir to the throne! I will make him have you disciplined, soldier!”
Horemheb was unmoved by the insult. “I do not pity you, Fledgling,” he responded dryly. “It is time to prepare for a new administration.”
“If you have come to rub yourself against me like a fawning cat, you can go and play with yourself.” He used a particularly obscene expression, but Horemheb refused to be drawn.
‘This is an order for the immediate mobilization of the army,” he said sharply, lifting the scroll. “I want you to give your official approval, Highness, if there is to be anything left of Egypt for you to rule.”
“I don’t give a damn for Egypt.”
“I know that. But you do want the Double Crown, and if you are clever, my cooperation.”
“Threats?” Smenkhara sneered. “Really, Commander, if I lift a finger, I can have you speared and tossed into the Nile.”
“I do not think you can, Prince,” Horemheb said softly. “In any event, it is to your advantage to gain my confidence. Your mother wanted the throne for you, and if you are to secure it, you need me.”
Color flamed in Smenkhara’s sun-starved cheeks. “Your impudence is unforgivable, Horemheb! I have secured it already!”
“Not quite. Your half brother continues to grow under the protection of Queen Nefertiti. If the succession was a matter of blood alone, his claim would be stronger than yours.”
Smenkhara’s eyes narrowed. “Are you daring to tell me,” he said quietly, “that unless I do what you want, you will transfer your allegiance to the bastard son of an illegal coupling? My father was Amunhotep III, the greatest pharaoh Egypt has ever seen. No claim is greater than mine.”
“Highness, I do not think that the claims of blood will have much validity when Pharaoh dies. The Treasury is empty, the administration atroph
ied through disuse and the corruption of too much bribery, the country as a whole almost irremediably impoverished. Power will go to the fittest, not to the man whose blood is purest. You must be seen to be strong enough to deserve the throne. I loved and admired your father, and your mother was my goddess. Help me to help you.”
Smenkhara studied his face. “Your eyes are lying,” he said. His fingers went to the bruise on his neck, and he rubbed it absently. “If you want to help me, kill my brother.”
“That is not necessary. I am convinced he is dying. We can issue what edicts we like, and he will not interfere. His days are a murky succession of dreams and nightmares. He has lost touch with the world.”
“You would not be so sure of that if it was you he kissed and fondled with such monumental lust.” Smenkhara’s voice shook. “I thought you were his friend. I cannot trust you.”
“That does not matter. I do not trust you, either.”
“You speak blasphemy. What of Ay?”
Horemheb smiled. “The fanbearer is very old.”
“Gods, you are disgusting.” Smenkhara jerked away. There was wine by the couch, and he poured for himself and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Give me the scroll. Mobilization?”
“And war.” Horemheb stepped from the window and, handing the document to Smenkhara, spoke urgently into the young man’s face. “I have been proud of my country, Prince. When I was a young boy growing up in Hnes, my father taught me to serve the gods, honor Pharaoh, and give thanks every day for the privilege of being born an Egyptian. All men envy us, he told me, because Egypt is prosperous, and her laws are just. I did not need to take his word alone.” He drew back and, going to the window, leaned wearily against the casing. “He worked hard, but our life was good. Our land produced well, and even after paying our portion each year to Pharaoh’s tax collectors there was usually enough grain for my father to barter in exchange for a trinket or two for my mother. Hnes was a happy place. Even the poorest peasants did not need to beg. I wish Your Highness could see my natal town now.” He turned his gaze toward the garden. “It is destitute. I send gold to the local priest to be distributed, but the people have become coarsened by privation, and though gold will fill their bellies, it will not buy them back their dignity.” He had begun to speak too loudly and now paused, softening his voice. “As a child I was not aware that Hnes lies very close to the border. No one thought much about it. But now Hnes is full of fear. How terrible are those words! Egyptian citizens on Egyptian soil, never knowing when they might wake to find their village full of foreign soldiers! The shame of it!” Suddenly he swung to regard Smenkhara again. “I was never like the other boys in Hnes,” he said. “I always knew fate had great things in store for me. I was clever and full of ambition, but above all I burned to serve my country and the god upon the Horus Throne whose benevolent omnipotence enabled me and my family to go to our pallets each night without hunger and sleep without anxiety.”
“This is a pretty story,” Smenkhara interjected, “but my patience is wearing thin. Everyone knows you are a commoner and rose through the ranks. Get to the point.”
Horemheb stiffened. “The point is this,” he replied evenly. “I still love Egypt and revere the dignity of her god ruler. I desire above all to see both restored to the place Ma’at has decreed for them. I have watched the disintegration of all that every true Egyptian holds dear. There is still time, a little, to reverse the tide of misfortune that swept over us when your brother ascended the throne, if you, Prince, will only support me. The immediate stabilization of Syria is imperative as a first move. I intend to march the army into our erstwhile dependency and begin a war of recovery.”
Smenkhara watched him with a half-smile of speculation. “The clever and ambitious little boy has become a clever and ambitious man,” he said coolly. “I have no doubt that your protestations of selfless love for your country have some truth to them, but I would also wager all the gold I have that you will not go into Syria with the army yourself.” He went to the lighted candle by the couch and held sealing wax over it. “If you did, you might return to find more shifts in the balance of power at court than you could control. Eh, Commander?” Deftly he dripped the wax onto the edges of the scroll and, removing his ring, pressed the heir’s seal into it. “There.” He threw it at Horemheb. “Spill all the Egyptian blood you want. Just keep your war away from Akhetaten.”
Pharaoh’s voice suddenly broke into the small silence that followed. “Smenkhara!” he called shrilly. “Where are you?”
Smenkhara raised his plucked eyebrows. “My royal lover bleats for me,” he said. “I wonder what my mother would have had to say about it if she had lived.” Horemheb did not answer but stood turning the scroll in his hand, his face expressionless. Envy suddenly marred Smenkhara’s handsome face as he looked at Horemheb, and he spat on the floor. “Get out,” he whispered. “I am cleaner in the sight of the gods than you, soldier.” Akhenaten called again, his voice a shriek of distress. Horemheb bowed and left.
Several days later the rumor of Smenkhara’s concession to Horemheb reached Ay’s ears. Anxiously he tried to obtain an audience with the prince himself, wanting to ascertain the extent of any influence he might have with his nephew, but Smenkhara had isolated himself in his three small rooms and re fused to see anyone. Ay sent a servant to locate Horemheb and, several hours after being turned away from the prince’s door, was told that the commander was in the office of the Scribe of Recruits. Calling for his litter, Ay was carried beyond the palace to the site where Pharaoh’s ministers had used to conduct the business of government. Most of the rooms were empty, but Ay met several scribes carrying their palettes and scrolls coming out of the headquarters of military conscription. Pushing open the door, he entered.
Horemheb was sitting alone, behind an overflowing desk, the remains of a hurried meal before him. He rose as Ay crossed the floor, and the two men bowed to each other. Horemheb sank back onto his chair and invited Ay to do the same. Ay pulled a stool closer to the desk.
“I came to hear you confirm or deny the rumor that Smenkhara gave you permission to begin a campaign,” Ay began. “And if he did, why was I not consulted? I am, after all, the Fanbearer on the Right Hand.”
“I would have told you before long,” Horemheb answered apologetically, “but I did not want Pharaoh to learn of my intentions prematurely, perhaps during one of his periods of lucidity, and countermand my orders. It does not matter now. They went out to the divisional commanders yesterday.”
“You mean,” Ay protested hotly, “that you did not acquaint me with your plans for fear I would have immediately told Pharaoh. Of course I would have! What you have done is sacrilege, Horemheb.”
Horemheb’s fist came down on the desk. “Someone had to do something!” he answered forcefully. “Yes, I have been sacrilegious, and I am guilt-stricken because of it, but I am sick of inaction, sick of giving unheeded advice, sick of the same worn discussions with you that go around in circles. It is not treason!” He grimaced, and his angry gaze dropped to his clenched fingers.
“I did not say it was,” Ay put in after a moment, “but it is a decision taken hastily, without due consideration. You have allowed your desperation to triumph over your good sense, Commander. How many divisions are involved?”
“Four are on their way to Memphis for victualing, and they will cross the border soon.”
“Are they ready to fight?” Ay waited for an answer, but Horemheb was silent, still looking at his hand, which was now pressed against the smooth wood of the table. “Are they?” Ay urged, now on his feet and leaning toward Horemheb. “You know as well as I that most of our troops have seen no action in more than forty years. They need three months of mock battle drill, time to toughen, to recover from the famine, to learn what they face from the Khatti and the desert! If they are defeated, it will hasten an invasion of Egypt!”
Horemheb’s head came up, and he glared at Ay. “You have always be
en more full of words than actions,” he said, “and what have words accomplished? Nothing! Besides, it has been years since you retired from active involvement with the cavalry to become fully the courtier. You do not know what you are talking about.”
“Perhaps not,” Ay responded sharply, “but your officers must have advised caution.”
“I did not consult them.” Horemheb rose and gave Ay a brief smile. “I am the Supreme Commander of All the Forces of His Majesty, and I say the army is ready to go to war. Do not worry.” He came around the desk and put his arm lightly across Ay’s shoulders. “We have been through too much together to cease trusting each other, Fanbearer. I will share the information in the dispatches that come for me from the front, I promise.”
“Do not patronize me, Horemheb,” Ay said, moving away, still angry. “I have more sympathy with you than you think, but I beg you to remember that it is I who must stand outside Pharaoh’s chamber watching and listening to the disintegration of a man I swore long ago to honor and protect. For those of us in constant attendance on him it is very painful.”
“I do remember it,” Horemheb answered gently. “I, too, owe much to Pharaoh, but surely we both owe Egypt more.”
Ay pondered Horemheb’s words as he was carried back to the palace, and they made him feel all at once very lonely. He would have liked to go straight to Tiye’s house to discuss the situation with her, but that pleasure would never come again. Missing her was a constant dull ache that intensified each night when he presided at the feasts in Akhenaten’s place, for her granddaughter Ankhesenpaaten, as Great Royal Wife, now sat beside him in the place where once the empress had looked out over the company with her impassive blue eyes.
Although Akhenaten himself showed no interest in his latest daughter, Ankhesenpaaten-ta-sherit, Ay felt sorry for his young queen and often sent his steward to the nursery to enquire after the baby’s health. It was not good. She did not feed well and slept too much. On one occasion when he had summoned the energy to go himself, he found Ankhesenpaaten herself there, sitting on the floor with her daughter in her lap. At her nod he approached, bowing. Ankhesenpaaten smiled wanly and, gathering up the baby, held it out to him as trustingly as if it were a broken doll.
The Twelfth Transforming Page 45
