by Paula Guran
“Look at me,” said the prince.
Amun did as he was told. Up close, Ramesses’ face was unquestionably that of a boy; handsome, made of straight lines and soft skin, but a boy’s nonetheless. Amun had seen nine years come and go, and he suspected that Ramesses had only seen two or three more.
“What is your name?”
“Amun, Your Highness.”
Ramesses broke into a wide smile. “Amun?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“My birth name is Meryamun. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Cease with the formalities, Amun. Just answer.”
“It means loved by Amun.”
“That’s right. We are well met, you and I. Amun and Meryamun.”
Amun smiled involuntarily, then forced it away, replacing it with the respectfully neutral expression that was expected of all the priests of Anubis. Ramesses looked around, as though realizing for the first time that everyone had stopped what they were doing to observe his exchange with the apprentice.
“Hery Sesheta,” he said, his voice full of natural authority. “Continue.”
The mask of Anubis nodded, and beckoned to Bes. The Wetyw resumed their duties as the Hetemw Netjer came forward and handed Ahmose a long metal hook. Ramesses watched for a moment, then returned his attention to Amun.
“Stand with me,” he said. “We will see my grandfather into the afterlife together.”
Amun cast a glance in the direction of his father, but the jackal mask was silent and impassive. When no objection was forthcoming, he did as he was told, and watched as his father bent to one of his most
delicate tasks.
“You have seen this many times,” said Ramesses.
“Yes,” replied Amun, unsure whether the young prince had been asking a question or not. “Many times, Your Highness.”
“I have not,” said Ramesses. “It is beautiful, to see my grandfather treated with such love. But it is horrible too, I think.”
“It is necessary,” said Amun, his voice full of learned devotion. “It is an honor to send such a man onwards.”
“Of course,” said Ramesses, and smiled at him. “The afterlife is full of dangers. It is only right that we enter it whole.”
In the center of the Ibu, Ahmose carefully guided the hook up the left nostril of the pharaoh. When it was almost as deep as it would go, he pushed it forward with his strong, steady hands. There was a loud crunch, and Amun felt his stomach revolve; this was the worst part, the part he looked forward to least. His father moved the hook forward, twisted it, and pulled it slowly back. It emerged with a large piece of the pharaoh’s brain attached to it; the grey matter was dull in the fading light, pale and torn. Bes stepped forward, pulled it free, and placed it into a bowl as the Hery Sesheta inserted the hook a second time.
“Are you scared?” asked Ramesses, his eyes fixed on the stone table.
“No,” said Amun.
“You do not fear death?”
“No.”
“You should not,” said Ramesses. “It is only a doorway.”
The two boys stood in silence for a long moment.
“Why were you looking at us?” asked Ramesses, eventually. “When your fellow priests were working, your attention was on this side of the Ibu. Why was that?”
“I am sorry,” said Amun. “It was wrong of me.”
“I care not about that,” said Ramesses. “Right and wrong is my father’s domain. Why did you look?”
“I was interested, Your Highness.”
“In what?”
“In why you do not seem sad,” said Amun. “I have seen many families stand within a tent like this one, and many of them are very upset. Your family do not seem sad.”
“I am not,” said Ramesses. “Grief is selfish. I will miss my grandfather, but sadness would be improper. He was old, and he has gone to a new life. Why should that make me sad?”
“I do not know,” said Amun. “Why are other people sad when their loved ones die?”
“Because they cannot see,” said Ramesses. “Life is a great house, with many doors. We come in through one, and leave through another. I see in your eyes that you do not know this yet, not truly. But you will. In time you will. And we will speak again.”
“Hery Sesheta?” said the vizier. “Are you unwell? Perhaps we should stop?”
“No,” said Amun, his voice little more than a croak, then repeated the word more forcefully. “I am fine. Let us continue.”
“As you wish,” said Prehotep, although Amun saw the concern in the vizier’s eyes. “We will be there soon.”
“Good,” said Amun, and leaned forward, bracing himself more steadily against the desert wind. For a moment he had been able to smell the Ibu, to see every detail of his father’s mask as he worked. He looked down at his hands as they gripped the chariot’s rail, their backs covered in veins and wrinkles and the unsightly blemishes of old age, and grimaced. “Very good.”
The vizier spoke the truth; their journey had been fast, and was almost done. Amun had emerged from his house to find a fleet of cha riots filling the road outside; Prehotep had carefully led him to the largest and most splendid, in which the two men were now traveling. Nine military chariots surrounded them, along with several dozen soldiers on foot, their spears drawn. It was an awesome sight, a physical manifestation of the vizier’s power and influence; as they made their way through the center of Thebes, heading for the Valley of the Kings to the east and the Ibu that had been constructed there, men and women prostrated themselves at the sides of the roads, their heads lowered to the sand in deference to the passage of Prehotep and his passenger.
At the eastern edge of Thebes they passed the temple of Anubis, the great stone monument to death and rebirth in which Amun had been born and lived. He stared at it as they rumbled by its southern façade, a flat wall of pale yellow rock that rose imposingly toward the heavens; he had spent more days inside it than out, by a great number.
“Does the temple bring back memories?” asked Prehotep.
“The temple never leaves me,” replied Amun. “I do not need to see it to remember.”
Prehotep smiled, and turned his attention back toward their direction of travel. The last of Thebes ebbed away and the desert swallowed them, seeming to appear from nowhere and coat the entire world with a blanket of sand and stone. Amun shielded his eyes against the worst of the dust, making sure to keep one hand firmly on the chariot’s rail, and squinted; in the distance, a white square rose against the shimmering horizon.
“The Ibu?” he asked, and pointed.
Prehotep followed the line of his finger, and nodded. “Yes. It is the largest that has ever been built.”
“Why?”
“I do not understand,” said Prehotep, frowning. “Why what?”
“Why must it be so large?” said Amun. “The rituals require no more space now than in years past.”
“It is not a matter of practicality,” said Prehotep, the smile returning to his face. “It is for the glory of Ra, and for his departed servant.”
“I do not think Ramesses would have cared about the size of the tent he was laid in,” said Amun.
“I would not presume to guess,” said Prehotep. “I did not have the privilege of knowing the pharaoh for the weight of years that you were given. But it is what is required, for the death of the greatest ruler the empire has known. It is what is expected.”
Amun grunted. He was sure the vizier was correct; the monuments and temples that had been built for Ramesses and his many wives and children had grown ever larger as his reign had reached its fifth, sixth, and seventh decades, towering creations dedicated to the glory of the pharaoh and the empire he led. Of course the mourning public would expect an Ibu larger than any that had gone before it; it was only natural. Although he was also sure that he was correct, that Ramesses himself would not have cared about the dimensions of the room in which he was laid to res
t; he would have cared only about what was done to him inside it.
“Life is a great house,” he whispered. “With many doors.”
“Did you say something, Hery Sesheta?” said Prehotep.
Amun shook his head. “No.”
The body of Seti I rested on the same stone table that his father had lain on eleven years earlier.
It had been forty days since Amun had helped to cover the dead pharaoh’s body in natron, the task he had once watched the Wetyw, of whose ranks he was now a member, do for Ramesses I as he stood beside his grandson. He was now a man of nineteen and a full member of the priesthood of Anubis, although still one of the most junior; his father, whose health was now beginning to fail him, had made it very clear that he would receive no advancement for reasons other than his own devotion and competence. Ahmose was standing silent watch at the head of the table as the Wetyw unpacked the thick layer of salt and carried buckets of water from the Nile into the Ibu, ready to wash Seti clean and oil his skin so that it remained supple inside his wrappings.
They would begin as soon as the pharaoh’s family arrived.
Amun had been looking forward to this day, even though he knew how inappropriate it was for him to do so. He was now involved in carrying out the rituals upon which a man’s safety in the afterlife depended, and if Ahmose knew his focus was on anything other than
the task at hand, he would have been severely beaten.
But he simply could not help himself.
Today, the Prince Regent, who would shortly ascend to the throne as Ramesses II, was going to observe the beginning of the wrapping, a process that would take fifteen days to complete. The young royal had not attended any of the burial process so far, much to Amun’s disappointment. He had heard tales of the Prince Regent’s adventures in the years since their single conversation had taken place, and had felt a strange pride, as though he were hearing stories of his own brother, rather than a member of the royal family. He knew, deep down, that it was incredibly unlikely that the Prince Regent would remember him, or recall a conversation that had taken place when they were both still boys, but he didn’t care.
He remembered.
Ahmose, his face hidden behind the Anubis mask that was now faded and worn, much like the skin beneath it, tapped the bottom of his staff against the stone table. Amun and the rest of the Wetyw immediately formed a line on one side of the Ibu, drew themselves up to their full height and waited silently as Seti’s family entered the tent.
The Prince Regent led them, his head up, his eyes clear and full of life. The nose that had been full when last Amun saw him had developed into a pronounced hook, and there was a slight unsteadiness to his left side, as though he were feeling pain in that leg. But the rest of him was just as Amun remembered; the face handsome, the hair jet black, the skin smooth and gleaming. The man who was about to take charge of the entire Egyptian empire strode into the Ibu, looked around quickly, then broke into a smile.
“Amun,” he said. “Have you forgotten your place in this tent?”
Amun felt a lump rise into his throat, and fought back the urge to laugh with delight. Instead, he forced himself to turn slowly and bow to his father; the Hery Sesheta acknowledged it with the merest inclination of the Anubis mask’s snout. Amun thanked him, and walked across the tent to where Ramesses was stood, facing the dried-out remains of his father. With him were a large number of his wives and retinue, but the Prince Regent paid them all scant attention; he was focused on the body before him. Amun slipped into the line beside him, and followed his gaze. For a long moment, neither man spoke, until Ramesses uttered a single word.
“Begin.”
The priests did as they were told. The Hery Heb began to recite his verses and incantations, as the Wetyw washed the pharaoh, gently rinsing away the natron and removing the salt parcels from inside the body. As the first oils were applied to the dead man’s skin, Ramesses turned to Amun.
“I had your father provide me with updates on your progress,” he said. “I am glad to see you are doing well.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” said Amun. “I am sorry for the loss of your father.”
Ramesses nodded. “He lived a full life.”
“Are you sad, Highness?”
Ramesses broke into a smile. “I should have you whipped for impudence,” he said. “You remember our conversation as well as I do.”
“I do.”
“And do you see?”
“I see, Your Highness.”
“Tell me.”
Amun smiled. “I have seen much. I have seen women shriek and men weep and beat their chests with pain. I have cut flesh and packed salt and washed and oiled skin. I have seen what is inside all men, be they slave or merchant or pharaoh.”
“What is inside?” asked Ramesses, his voice low.
“Meat,” said Amun. “Blood and bone. The souls cannot be seen, but they are there, in every man whose body lies before me. They will move on, whether they wish to or not, just as they were born into this world, whether or not they wanted to be.”
A smile of great beauty lit up Ramesses’ face. “You have seen.”
“You showed me the path, Your Highness,” said Amun. “I merely walked it.”
On the stone table, Seti’s body had been emptied of the salt that had filled it. His organs, which had been carefully dehydrated in ornate jars, were wrapped in linen and handed to the Hetemw Netjer, who placed them back into the empty cavity. When they had all been returned to their rightful places, the Hery Sesheta stepped back from the table, and the Wetyw scurried forward with armfuls of leaves and linens with which to pack the pharaoh’s body. Ramesses and Amun watched as they soaked the dead skin a final time with scented oils, then stepped back.
“Now comes the wrapping?” said Ramesses.
“Yes,” said Amun. “Now it comes.”
The Hery Heb’s incantations grew louder and more frenetic as the Hery Sesheta bent down until the snout of the Anubis mask was almost touching the corpse. Then, working with a speed and dexterity that belied his advancing years, Ahmose began to loop strips of linen around Seti’s head, pulling them tight and fastening them in place with resin. When it was done, an unspoken command passed from him to the Wetyw, who began to wrap the individual fingers and toes with the same remarkable precision. As they wound linen up the legs, Ahmose produced two blue amulets from his robe, and held them up above his head. The Hery Heb’s chanting became almost frenzied, and as the Wetyw reached the hips with their first layer of wrapping, Ahmose placed the two pieces reverentially on to Seti’s chest. As they were bound to his flesh for all eternity, Ramesses, who had been watching in devout silence, spoke to Amun.
“Tell me of the amulets. I would know.”
“The one that now rests over your father’s heart,” said Amun, his voice little more than a whisper. “That is the Isis Knot. It will protect his body in the afterlife. The one that lies on his stomach is the Plummet. It gives balance, in all worlds.”
“You are sure?”
“I am,” said Amun. “My father would not let the pharaoh travel onwards unprotected.”
Ramesses nodded, his eyes still fixed on the dried-out husk that had been his father. Then he turned to Amun. “If I asked you to accompany me to the palace and serve as my personal priest, what answer would you give?”
“Your Highness,” said Amun, his eyes widening. “There are many priests more senior than I, who would be—”
“I am not interested in other priests,” interrupted Ramesses. “I am interested in you. What answer would you give?”
“I would thank Your Highness for such an offer,” said Amun. “And then I would refuse it.”
Ramesses stared at him for a long moment. “You would refuse the chance to sit at my side?”
“I would, Your Highness.”
“Explain.”
“What I do here is more important, Your Highness,” said Amun. “There is no greater honor than preparing our fel
low men for the afterlife, and no greater responsibility. I would not do anything else.”
Ramesses narrowed his eyes. “And if I commanded you?”
“I would beg Your Highness for mercy,” said Amun. “For leave to carry on with this work. And I believe it would be granted.”
Ramesses smiled. “Why do you say so?”
“Because I was taught that life is a great house, with many doors.”
The Prince Regent’s smile widened. “I will return in fourteen days when the wrapping is done,” he said. “Before your father opens my father’s mouth. Then one day, my friend, you will do the same for me.” Amun opened his mouth to protest, but Ramesses spoke over him. “Would you deny the request of your pharaoh? Would you say no when he asks for your help, when he entrusts the most important thing in the world to you?”
“No, Your Highness,” said Amun. His mind was racing. “But only the Hery Sesheta may open the mouth, and I am only Wetyw.”
“I have every intention,” said Ramesses, smiling once more, “of living a long life, Amun. I will die an old, old man. You will be almost as old yourself, and you will do this last thing for me. I would not have it done by any other. You will open my mouth and then another will open yours and I will see you on the other side, where perhaps you will be the pharaoh and I the priest. Or perhaps we will both be herders, or builders. We will find out, in time. Do you make this vow with me?”
“I do, Your Highness,” said Amun, his voice full and thick. He knew it was wrong to promise that which he could not guarantee; he might never be Hery Sesheta, and he might well not outlive his friend, even allowing for the dangers that went with the role of pharaoh. But he had been asked to make a vow, and he had made it. He would simply have to find a way; breaking it was unthinkable.
“Good,” said Ramesses. “I must depart, but I will see you in fourteen turns. And we will speak again.”
And we did, thought Amun, as the chariot neared the towering Ibu. We spoke when Seti’s mouth was opened, and when Ramesses moved his Palace from Thebes to Pi-Ramesses Aa-nakhtu. We spoke when he buried the first of his sons, when he had been fighting in Syria and Nubia and some of the light had left his eyes. And then . . .
