The Amarnan Kings, Book 2: Scarab - Smenkhkare

by Overton, Max

  "But not your daughter."

  Ay shook his head and brushed the back of his hand theatrically against his dry eyes. "Alas, no. Still overcome with her anger, she admitted her guilt."

  "Yet you did not plead for her?"

  "Your majesty, I am a loyal servant of the king Akhenaten. I would not defend my daughter's admitted guilt. I do, of course, grieve my loss, but for the sake of Kemet, I would give up everything."

  "You have given up much for Kemet, uncle, and served the Two Lands faithfully for a lifetime already longer than most men's. I think it is time you enjoyed what time you have left in the peace of your own household, with the reward of your king to sustain you."

  Ay stared at Smenkhkare, his mind seeking a way out of this disaster. "I do not wish to retire. I can still be of service to Kemet."

  "But I wish you to retire, Tjaty Ay, and I am king. Would you disobey me?" Smenkhkare held up a hand as his uncle opened his mouth. "Think before you speak again. I am not a king like my brother Akhenaten that you may bend to your own will. I am my own man and know my own mind. Take this retirement with the blessing of your king or go serve my brother in Akhet-Aten. You have until the end of the month to get your affairs in order."

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  Chapter Two

  Waset, the city of Amun, sat sweltering in the summer heat, the burning disc of the sun blazing down from a cloudless sky the colour of lapis lazuli. The dust of the land rose up to meet the sun in the rippling atmosphere, tainting the air with an acrid smell, a mixture of ground rock, sweat, incense and ordure. Men worked in the heat, having no choice. If they did not work to support their families, no-one else would put bread on their tables for them. It was a feast day of the goddess Tefnut, yet the business of the city went on. Every day was the feast day of one or more of the gods, but who had the leisure to observe them all? The priests chanted their rituals, made the offerings, and perhaps carried a statue of the god through the crowded streets, but the average citizen paused only to salute the passing deity before hurrying off about his business.

  In the wake of a small gaggle of white-robed priests bearing a gilded statue of Tefnut, two people, a young man and a younger woman, walked slowly down the Street of Potters. To an observer, it might have seemed that the young couple was part of the procession, but when the priests turned into the Street of Weavers, the man and woman kept straight on without a glance, their heads bent in conversation.

  "They are daily growing bolder, my lady," the young man murmured. "They forget the old religion is still prohibited."

  "Enough of the 'my lady', Khu. It is time you grew bolder and called me Scarab. You did once before, in the desert."

  The young man sketched a brief bow and grinned. "As my lady wishes. Seriously though...Scarab, the old gods are still banned, yet everywhere you look you see gods and their priests."

  "That is because my brother Smenkhkare is bringing back the old ways, as well you know. The people have lived without the solace of the gods for too long. Only the prohibition of Akhenaten prevents the temples being opened and freedom of worship flourishing once more in the Two Lands." The young woman shook her head, making the carefully braided wig on her head swing. She smiled at Khu, revealing strong white teeth in a coppery complexion. Dark eyes twinkled beneath full lashes and her breasts quivered beneath the fine linen of her garments. "It is too lovely a day to be serious Khu. Let us enjoy our beautiful city and the new peace and prosperity my brother brings to Kemet."

  For a space they walked in silence, taking in the familiar, yet ever-new sights, sounds and smells of the city. Crowds of men and women thronged the streets, dressed for the most part in plain linen kilts or shifts, the poorer men often naked, contrasting with the occasional flash of colour and gold as a rich man passed, a slave holding a wide sun-shade above his shaved head; or a lady, her maids dancing attendance around her as her jewels flashed in the sunlight. Children swarmed, running and darting between the legs of the adults, their shrill cries piercing the deeper muted roar of a thousand voices in conversation. Dogs snapped and snarled in the alleys, fighting over scraps of food, disturbing the clouds of flies that dipped and hovered over food and waste alike. From the edges of the street came the cries of the shop-keepers, of merchants and of whores, each extolling the virtue of their particular commodity. Soldiers, gripping tall spears and with curved bronze swords hanging from leather belts, patrolled the streets in small groups, their eyes roving. Medjay too, the local police, stood at the street corners, their short cudgels in hand, looking for any disturbance, ready to crack a few skulls to restore order. They looked faintly resentful that the citizens were careful not to give any cause for their interference.

  Although not much past mid-morning, the heat of the sun beat back from the packed and hardened clay of the streets, reflected off the mud brick and stone walls of the buildings, and rippled the dusty air. The odor of a thousand years of life, baked into the brick and earth, rose as a familiar miasma, noticed only by strangers to the city. Women had been thronging the streets since early morning, seeking out the daily necessities for their households, bargaining and arguing with shopkeepers and merchants, beating down the price of bread, onions, beer, or a handful of dates. Now they took their leave of the merchants, hurrying home to escape the midday heat and prepare the noon meal for their families. The men remained, backs bent and heads bowed, carrying produce or waste, bearing loads or repairing walls, carving wood or fashioning metal, carrying out the myriad tasks that brought in the pittance they needed to keep their families fed.

  Yet people smiled, or at least went about their business with an air of contentment. Their muscles might ache and their skin burn under the fierce heat of the sun, the sweat drying to leave a dust of salt on their tanned skin, but they were doing what their fathers had done before them, and their fathers, back through the generations. They helped maintain Ma'at, the crucial balance of god and man, everyone in his place and doing what he was born to do. From the exalted gods, through their representative-on-earth, the king; the nobles, priests and scribes down to the poorest peasant who worked the land or emptied the latrines, all worked to keep Kemet stable and prosperous.

  The heretic king had changed everything, overthrowing the gods and setting up his own god Aten in their place, creating a new capital city and disturbing the balance of the world. The gods had struck back, bringing plague and famine, war and poverty, until the land of Kemet tottered on the brink of anarchy and chaos. Then Smenkhkare became king over Waset, and the land staggered away from the precipice. Despite the continued presence of the heretic in his city, the new king had fought to bring prosperity to his people and the gods back to their worshippers.

  Scarab and Khu paused where the Street of Potters debouched into the great Avenue of Rams, the broad thoroughfare that led to the huge expanse of the temple of Amun. Although not yet open to the people, Smenkhkare had been working with the priests to refurbish the temple and make it a fit place for the god once more. The ceremonial lake of purification had been dredged and refilled, the walls white-washed and the temple itself, open only to the elements and the wild creatures, thoroughly cleansed as it became once more the abode of ever-living Amun.

  "I know Amun must be returned to his pre-eminence," Scarab murmured. "But it worries me that Kemet will return so completely to the old days."

  Khu frowned, his young face beneath its unruly thatch of black hair, screwing up in concern. "What do you mean? I thought you wanted a return to the old ways?"

  "I do, but think, Khu. We have had but one god these last six or seven years and where has it got us? Kemet has been brought to the edge of disaster. Now we return to the old ways but we have that." Scarab gestured toward the great white-washed walls of the Amun temple, reflecting back the glare of the sun in coruscations of blinding light. "We put ourselves under the dominance of one god again."

  "But the other gods are allowed, at least unofficially. We just saw Tefn
ut in the streets."

  "I know, but why can we not get back to where all our gods are important in our lives? Why does one god have to be dominant?"

  "He is the god of your family," Khu reproved gently. "Your ancestors made him great, and he in turn brought greatness to them. Look at your father, the great Nebmaetre. Was he not one of the greatest kings who ever lived?"

  Scarab smiled. "True. And my brother Smenkhkare will surpass him." She shrugged and set out across the wide Avenue, heading for the Street of Glass. "If I had my way though, I would make all gods of equal importance, give them all a proper respect."

  "Perhaps that is just a problem of the cities, my la...Scarab." Khu hurried to keep up. "Back on the farm we had an awareness of every god. My father Pa-it greets the sun every day, not just as the Aten, but also as Khepri, Re, Heru and Atum. A farmer is always in debt to Geb of the growing things, Su of the wholesome air, Tefnut of the night dew that freshens the crops, Hapi who brings us the blessed inundation every year..."

  "I understand, Khu," Scarab interrupted. She placed a slim hand on the young man's bronzed arm. "I understand. You are closer to the land, to the very essence of Kemet, to our Two Lands. You can see the importance of the gods. That is why we must make everyone aware of the great debt we owe to all our gods, not just one or two or fifty."

  "So we need to get back to our old worship and remove the taint of Atenism."

  "Aten is a god too, an aspect of the greatest of them." Scarab gestured up at the sun, now close to the zenith. "We must find a way to let all gods be a part of our lives." She looked around at the street they now found themselves in. "Enough of this talk for now, dear Khu; we must remember what we came here for. There is Ahhotep's workshop."

  They stood on the Street of Glass, outside a great walled enclosure, peering in through a wide opening. Two heavy wooden doors lay flat back against the crumbling mud brick walls, as if holding them up. Within the courtyard a large tamarind tree shed dappled shade over the bare, dusty earth of the interior. Leading the way into the courtyard, Scarab made her way toward the figure of an old man seated on a wooden stool and leaning up against the gnarled bark of the tree. As she entered the shade, she felt the temperature drop and she smelled the sharp acid-sweet tang of fallen tamarind pods. Her mind leapt back years to almost-forgotten memories of the palace gardens and her naming-day.

  She studied the old man on the stool for a few moments. Head bent forward on his bare chest that was pocked and scarred with innumerable small blemishes, the man snored softly, one hand on his lap, the other hanging beside him, close to an overturned pot of beer.

  Clapping her hands together softly, she called out. "Ahhotep!" After a moment she repeated her call, a trifle louder. The old man's soft snores broke off abruptly and his head half-lifted, his eyes blinking and squinting.

  "What? What is it? Nakht, is there a problem?" He came fully awake and looked up without recognition at the young woman standing in front of him, backlit by the glare of the noonday sun. Then he rubbed his eyes and leaned forward peering at her. "My lady Beketaten, is that you?" He fumbled for the stick that lay propped against the trunk of the tree, forcing himself upright on shaky legs.

  Scarab moved forward quickly and put a hand on Ahhotep's shoulder, gently pushing him back down. "Sit, Ahhotep. We will not stand on ceremony today."

  Ahhotep struggled for a moment before giving up. "It is not right, my lady, that I should sit while you stand." He coughed, his breath hard and rasping within his chest and he hawked to spit before thinking better of it and swallowing convulsively. "Let...let me call for a chair for you."

  "Khu will get one; you sit quietly and catch your breath." Waiting until her young man trotted off toward the buildings, Scarab knelt in the dust and picked up the fallen pot, smelling sour barley beer. Fluid slopped within the earthenware container and she handed it to the old man. "Here, you look as if you need it."

  Ahhotep took the pot with a trembling hand and drank, beer dribbling over his chin and onto his chest. "Thank you, my lady," he whispered, stifling a belch. "The days are long for an old man with little left to do."

  "Not so old, Ahhotep." Scarab looked searchingly at his lined face and white hair. She hesitated and subtracted ten years from her guess. "Why, you can be no more than fifty. A fine age but by no means decrepit."

  "Sixty-five, my lady, and not much longer for this world." Ahhotep sighed and ran a hand through his long hair, sweeping it back from his face. "I am ready. My wife died three years back and I have a fine tomb waiting for me in the hills. If it were not that Nakht needs me still I would go now."

  As if called, Khu trotted back across the courtyard with a stool, a short but robust young man in a leather apron hard on his heels. Setting the stool in the shade by the old man, Khu withdrew a few paces but remained attentive.

  Ahhotep gestured toward the young man. "You remember Nakht? Boy, pay attention. This is the lady Beketaten, sister to both kings. You pay her proper respect now."

  Nakht smiled and bobbed his head. "I remember, father." Turning to Scarab, he bowed his head. "Greetings, most beautiful lady. You are indeed welcome in my father's humble workshop."

  "I thank you for your kind words of welcome, Nakht, son of Ahhotep." Scarab inclined her head slightly, a gentle smile on her face.

  "May I offer you water?" Nakht drew a small pitcher from behind his back, the earthenware sides beaded with condensation. He carefully extracted a delicate blue cup from a small leather bag at his side and poured a cool stream of clear water into it, then held it out. The dappled sunlight glinted on the cup, throwing out gleams of deep blue like the early evening sky.

  Scarab took the cup delicately and gave a small cry of delight. "Glass? But it is so blue, so delicate. How did you make it?"

  Nakht blushed and looked away. "It...er, my father..."

  "Nonsense, boy. Take credit for it." Ahhotep smiled indulgently and leaned closer to Scarab, dropping his voice as if vouchsafing a secret despite being heard by everyone. "He made it himself, but how I don't know. He won't even tell me...me who taught him everything he knows."

  "Then I will not ask him for the secret," Scarab said. "It is truly beautiful, Nakht." She sipped and smiled again. "It even makes the water taste better."

  "Thank you, my lady." Nakht bowed again before turning and hurrying away across the courtyard.

  Ahhotep watched him go, a tear glistening in one eye. "I have never regretted the day I adopted him," he murmured. "Never, for one instant." He shook his head and brushed at his eyes with the back of a gnarled hand. "To business, I think. You are too busy to waste your time on the maundering of an old man."

  "I'll always have time for you, Ahhotep. You were good to me when I was a little girl."

  The old man turned to where Khu stood by the trunk of the tamarind tree. "You see what she is like? Royalty, sister to the king, no less...two kings, yet she still has time for a commoner."

  "What did you want to see us about?" Khu asked. "It was rather surprising you asked us to come out here, rather than presenting a petition with everyone else at the Hall of Justice."

  "Yes. Yes, I am sorry for that, but I had my reasons. I did not truly think you would come yourself, my lady. I thought perhaps you might send a trusted servant." Ahhotep's eyes twinkled. "Someone like this young man here."

  "I am on the King's Council, old man. I am not a servant."

  Ahhotep stared up at Khu blandly. "Are you not the king's servant, lad? And this lady's too? I seem to remember it was not so long ago you were a gawking farm lad."

  Khu flushed. "That was in the past. I am a trusted member of the council now and..."

  "Enough, Khu," Scarab broke in gently. "Nobody here thinks less of you for your origins. You are what you are, my friend if nothing else." She turned back to the old man. "What were your reasons for not wanting to come to the Hall of Justice?"

  Ahhotep sat in silence for a moment then spoke in a low voice, as if afraid of being overh
eard. "You know how I make glass, my lady? Not the details, you understand, just that I need various salts, minerals, even metals to mix in when the glass is molten. Well, these things I have to bring in, often from far away. I get alum from the Dekla oasis, certain ores I get from Nubia and Mitanni, and others can be mined here in the Two Lands."

  "Yes, I know these things."

  "Recently, I have been buying minerals from a certain merchant called Ptahwery, a man who owns a caravan that plies a route south to the second cataract. Down near the old king's gold mines. There is a rock there that yields an additive that gives the glass a unique yellow-green tinge, so bright it almost seems to glow." Ahhotep shrugged. "It is not a popular colour, but that is beside the point."

  "I was wondering when you might get to the point," Khu growled.

  Scarab raised a hand in warning. "Go on, Ahhotep."

  "Robbers are a problem sometimes. The caravans are safe enough close to the mines where the presence of soldiers is enough to protect them, but further away, closer to Waset, it is another story."

  Scarab frowned. "Robbers I can understand. Since my brother Akhenaten emptied the prisons there has been lawlessness in the land..."

  "As well we know," Khu grunted.

  "...but this is a matter for the authorities. Why does your friend Ptahwery not just bring this to the attention of the Medjay or the local garrison commander? Even bringing a petition at the morning audience would probably yield results."

  "Because of who leads the robbers, my lady."

  Scarab regarded the old man in silence for long seconds. "Who?" she asked softly.

  "Mentopher, steward of Tjaty Ay."

  "Your friend must be mistaken," Khu laughed. "Can you imagine a man with that sort of position and wealth stooping to rob a few camels in the desert?"

  "Do you know the man?" Ahhotep asked.

  "No, but the idea is preposterous. A man that well-known would have been recognized long since."

  "Exactly what I said to Ptahwery."