The Amarnan Kings, Book 2: Scarab - Smenkhkare

by Overton, Max

  The two men ignored Scarab and she moved over to the edge of the light, picking her way through a jumble of furniture and equipment, everything that a married couple would need for eternity. She recognized chairs and a bed with a carved hippopotamus headrest, a hunting bow, a spear and shield and a scatter of papyrus scrolls and pens. Coming to the wall of the chamber, she ran her fingers along the rough stone surface, her forehead wrinkling as she tried to work out what was wrong.

  "Where are the paintings? And why is the wall rough and unplastered?"

  "I do not know," Smenkhkare replied. "It may be that the tomb was finished in a hurry. There were a few paintings near the entrance. Or it may be that our grandfather Yuya did not want foreign gods in his tomb."

  "What do you mean by foreign?"

  "Lord Yuya was Khabiru, remember? He came to Kemet as a youth and an interpreter of dreams, and grandfather Tuthmosis made him Tjaty. He must have kept his Khabiru god."

  "The Aten? Like brother Akhenaten?"

  "No, not Aten, I mean the nameless Khabiru god that Akhenaten identified with the sun disc. Anyway, we shall probably never know the reason. All we can do is tidy the place up, replace what is left and make a fresh offering of food and drink for their outraged spirits."

  "Wh...where are the bodies?"

  Smenkhkare stepped over the debris until he reached the back wall. Holding the torch aloft, he pointed at the seals and the inscriptions carved in the plaster wall. "Here it is plastered and behind this wall lie the undisturbed bodies of our grandparents. See, the seals of the mortuary officials are intact. Whatever the thieves plundered, they did not reach the gold that lies here."

  Scarab stood and stared at the blank wall for a long time, the light from the torches steady though reddened in the still, musty air of the burial chamber. The only sound was an intermittent murmur from the scribes, a rustle of cloth or a soft clatter as they moved or put down an item, and the faint crackle and spit of the burning brands. Her mind seemed detached from her body and she wondered what it would be like to lie still in the blackness of her grave, her body packed with resins and spices, wrapped in tight linen, dreaming the years away. Or would she be with the gods? Would she wander star-lit fields or sunny meadows with Re or Nut, Het-Her or Djehuti, or any of the myriad gods she knew existed? Would they remember her as she had remembered them? Remembered them and striven alongside her brother to bring their worship back to the people of Kemet. A sound intruded and her mind swept back into her body and she looked round.

  "Come sister," her brother said, his hand on her arm. "Let us leave these men to their work. When I return from my hunt at Djeba, we shall offer new grave goods and seal the tomb again. In the meantime, the mortuary priests will replace anything that is missing." He turned and led the way out of the burial chamber, up the steep flights of stairs and into the dazzling warmth of the Great Place.

  Although it seemed like they had only been underground for minutes, Scarab could see that Heru, the Ascended Light was dropping toward the western cliffs of the valley. Already the edge of shadow that marked the valley rim was sweeping inexorably over the rubble of white rock. Far down the valley, she saw a line of men heading up toward them, priests and soldiers and many laborers carrying bundles. She pointed.

  Smenkhkare nodded in satisfaction. "Good. They will repair the tomb and guard it until I can return." He turned to Overseer Kenhirkhoshef. "I will leave you in command of this valley for a little longer. Make sure that you look after the tombs here as if they were those of your parents." He left the overseer bowing obsequiously and set off down the valley toward the gates, Scarab following more slowly. Halfway down, the shadows claimed them and a little later, as Smenkhkare drove the royal chariot down the road toward the cluster of mortuary temples and the river, the great sweep of shade cast by the setting sun stretched out and over the water, leaving only the high walls and columns touched by the golden light of the god.

  Smenkhkare drove in silence, his face set and immobile, seemingly lost in thought. Scarab respected his mood and looked out at the farmlands and the peasants trudging home after a long day in the fields.

  They reached the waterfront and the king dismounted, holding a hand out to help Scarab down from the chariot, turning the horses over to a stable hand. He waved away the officials who came toward him and, holding his sister's hand, walked past the docks and mudbrick buildings onto a grassy ridge that lay parallel to the river. After a hundred paces he stopped and sat down, tugging Scarab down beside him. Pulling his knees up under his chin, he wrapped his arms about his legs and rested his chin on his knees, staring out over the darkening water.

  Scarab sat quietly beside her brother, legs tucked underneath her. She looked at his profile in the fading light and frowned at his serious look. "What is it, brother?"

  For a few moments longer he sat in silence. "What is it all for? Why are we here?"

  Scarab thought for a moment. "Why are we here on the riverbank, or why are we alive?"

  Smenkhkare gave her a swift look before staring out into the dusk again. "Alive of course. Why am I king and...and those men we passed just now are mere peasants."

  Scarab shrugged. "Because the gods knew your Ka before it was united with your Khat, your physical body. They saw your nobility of spirit, knew you were kingly, whereas the peasants...well, no doubt they have other talents that suit them for their lives."

  "You say I am kingly. What is a king?"

  "One who rules."

  Smenkhkare shook his head. "That is not enough, sister. What else is a king?"

  Scarab thought about her answer, not quite sure what her brother meant. "A king is one chosen by the gods to lead his people."

  "You know that is wrong. I am king because my brother is king; my father was king and his father before him. How is there any choosing in this?"

  "The gods chose our ancestor Ahmose to be king though. Our family has been strong and has governed our Two Lands well. Do you not think they would choose another man, another family to become Per-Aa, the Great House, if you displeased them?"

  "What of my brother Akhenaten? He abolished the gods. Why have they not rid the country of him?"

  Scarab smiled gently and put her arm about her brother's shoulders. "Perhaps they have. Akhenaten is now king over a single city whereas you are king of the rest of Kemet. They know you will bring back true worship and have confirmed you in your kingship."

  Smenkhkare nodded grudgingly. "Perhaps you are right, little sister. I had not thought of that."

  The sun finally dipped below the desert cliffs and the glowing dusk faded into night. A cool breeze ruffled the unseen water and rattled the palm fronds above them. Scents of flowers from the fields, of lotus from the irrigation canals, tickled their senses and a low susurration of sound carried over the wide river from a city settling down into night.

  Scarab caught faint movements in the dusk along the ridge and she turned her head but the motions ceased when she looked, only to resume elsewhere. "They are here," she whispered. "The dead have arisen from their tombs and stand beside us, looking back to their old city where once they lived."

  A cry came, faint but distinct, carried on some vagary of the evening wind. Smenkhkare smiled. "The dead around us and an infant cries in Waset. New life to replace the old." The aromas of countless evening meals drifted over the water, frying fish, new-baked bread and even the sharp tang of sour beer. The king stirred and looked at his sister. "I am hungry."

  "Eat and drink and be happy while you live, dear brother. Who knows what the gods will send our way?"

  "Oh, I know, little Scarab. They have spoken to me."

  "Really? What did they say?"

  "That I am king for a great purpose. I will restore true worship in all of Kemet. I will be a great and powerful king, making Kemet's name resound among the lands around us. Our enemies shall fall at my feet but I shall be merciful. I shall be a father to my people, leading them to happiness and prosperity." Smenkhkare spr
ang to his feet with a whoop of joy, dragging Scarab up beside him. "I will marry the most beautiful princess Beketaten, make her my queen and father a thousand sons on her. We shall reign together for a hundred years before descending into the richest and most awe-inspiring tomb, there to enjoy the company of the gods for a million more years."

  Scarab frowned. "Do not tempt the gods, Smenkhkare. You wish for too much."

  "It is no mere wish, little Scarab. You shall see. I feel invigorated and I can accomplish anything." He took her by the hand and they ran back along the riverbank to the torches of the waiting officials.

  Behind them, on the dark deserted riverbank, the breeze swirled and whispered in the palm fronds, as if generations of ancient ghosts, scores of the forgotten dead, remembered their own youth, their own overweening desires, and laughed at the folly of kings.

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  Chapter Five

  The hymn to the Living Aten rose clear and strong from the Great Temple in the centre of Akhet-Aten, City of the Sun. Alone at the altar as the first rays of the rising god caught the great beaten gold representation of the disc of the sun, King Neferneferure Waenre Akhenaten, 'He who is useful to the Aten', lifted up his worn and troubled face to the warmth, praying that this day he would once more gaze upon the face of his god. He ended the hymn in a single high note and the choir of lesser priests broke into the free-form response, their voices less pure but still enthusiastic. The king strained to see, his other senses fading and he found his thoughts wandering.

  Flashes of light, formless and multi-coloured, broke the darkness that so often enveloped him these days. Surrounded by the beauty of his own temple to Aten, he was unable to see it. Four years ago, a lifetime, in those calmer days when Nefertiti was queen beside him, he had sought communion with his god, staring into the face of the sun until he fell blinded and insensible on the desert sand. Only the ministrations of the court physician Nebhotep had saved his sight. Yet from that day the darkness had gained a hold on the king, first on his vision, then on his heart and his happiness.

  Queen Nefertiti, hurt and angered by the king's decision to take his own daughter as wife, had rebelled and attempted to take over the throne of Kemet. The attempt failed, despite the connivance of her father, Tjaty Ay. Kemet's greatest general, Paatenemheb had put down the rebellion almost before it started. Now the queen, my beautiful queen , was in exile. Akhenaten was not even sure where, only that Paatenemheb had taken her from the Great Hall of Justice and marched into the desert with her. She might even be dead. No . Akhenaten shook his head. He would feel it in his soul if she died.

  The response faded away and Akhenaten, without conscious thought, took over the chant, the sounds of sistrum and lute accompanying him. He poured his heart into the culminating praise song, pleading silently that he might be given one more day, one hour even, of clear sight. The notes of the song died away and the unseen audience sighed and moved away, leaving the hunch-shouldered king in silence and darkness. A hand touched his bare arm.

  "Father, it is time to go." The speaker, a young girl of some twelve or thirteen floods, looked scarcely old enough to have lost the side lock of youth, but was arrayed in a beautiful white linen gown, her small rouged breasts just visible beneath the sheer fabric. A gold necklace broke the gauzy white sweep of her garment and complemented the gold nefer beads that adorned her short, curly black wig. Elsewhere in Kemet it might be the fashion to wear long wigs that fell in straight tresses below the shoulders, but here in the capital, the Nubian style reigned supreme.

  "Ankhesenpaaten." The king smiled and put out a hand to feel for his daughter. She stood still and let the wandering hand stray to her breast but before it could slip down her body she deftly moved aside, taking her father's arm gently and started forward, leading him out of the temple. Ankhesenpaaten, third daughter of Akhenaten and Nefertiti, was also queen, wife of her own father.

  Four years ago, in a desperate attempt to have the son he so badly wanted, he had taken an example from his own father and married his eldest daughter Meryetaten. This betrayal of their private marriage vows had finally turned Nefertiti against him and into rebellion. The rebellion and the marriage to Meryetaten had failed. The mother went into exile and the daughter gave birth to a girl and Akhenaten put his new queen away, sending her to Waset to marry his brother and new co-regent Smenkhkare. That marriage too had failed, though as far as he knew it was because the co-regent never consummated the marriage, having accepted her in his palace for form's sake.

  The previous year Akhenaten had tried once more for a son, marrying his other daughter Ankhesenpaaten. The birth of another girl brought Akhenaten's dreams of dynasty to an end. Seldom now could he arouse himself to any semblance of interest in women, and that suited his daughter-wife. She had her eyes on another man--well, a boy really--the king's youngest brother Tutankhaten. Son of Nebmaetre Amenhotep and his daughter Iset, the nine year old boy was being raised as a prince and subconsciously at least, for the idea was never voiced, as Akhenaten's son.

  Ankhesenpaaten led her father out of the temple and, with a handful of waiting courtiers, walked slowly back to the palace. She would have rather taken a sedan chair for the short journey but the king still wanted to be seen by his people and insisted on walking. It is just as well he is blind , she thought. He cannot see that his people have lost interest in him and his god .

  Back in the palace, she made sure that the king was placed in charge of servants she knew would look after him, bathing him and dressing him again, before she crossed the great covered bridge with its Window of Appearance to the women's quarters in the palace of the queen. Other women resided here as well. A king was not judged as potent and kingly without a stable of wives, even though Akhenaten had agreed to have no other bed-mate besides Nefertiti. Since the fall and exile of the former queen, Ankhesenpaaten's mother, the king had forsaken his promise and slept with his other wives, notably the Lady Kiya, a Mitannian princess whose beauty rivaled that of the younger Nefertiti. Children had resulted from his union with the lesser wives, all girls though, leading to Ankhesenpaaten's instalment as queen and wife in a renewed attempt to engender a son and heir.

  Although she was still technically queen, she thought of herself as a princess, a daughter. Her face clouded momentarily as she remembered her own daughter by her father. Already the little face, almost always crying, had slipped into obscurity. The disease that carried her off in the first months of her life had been a recurrence of the plague that killed three of her sisters and her grandmother Tiye. This latest outbreak, though mild by comparison, had claimed the life not only of her little daughter, but also of her sole remaining sister in Akhet-Aten, Neferneferoure. Of all her sisters, only the eldest, Meryetaten, survived, and she was in Waset.

  Ankhesenpaaten walked to her rooms where her many maidservants stripped her naked, putting her jewelry away in the great chest and her golden-beaded wig on one of the wig stands. She went into the tiled bath chamber and despite it being not long after dawn, bathed again quickly. Other servants sluiced her down with tepid water, then with cold and patted her dry with soft wool cloths, under the watchful eye of the Supervisor of the Bath. Dressing again in a plain dress, she spent a long time pawing through her jewelry with the Guardian of the Jewel Boxes before selecting a plain gold bracelet and a gold brooch with carnelian and lapis in the representation of the all-seeing eye. Her Keeper of the Cosmetics signaled and trays of ointments and unguents, powders and brushes were brought forth and a small army of women applied themselves to perfecting the already beautiful. A while later, after the princess-queen had examined herself in a polished silver mirror; she dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand and set out for the courtyard of the main palace.

  At the far end of the long open space, lined with statues of the king carved in the new fashion, accentuating length of limb and face and increasing the girth of belly and lips, sat the old scribe Keneben. So old and frail that
he looked like a body the embalmers in the House of Death had misplaced, he was nevertheless imbued with a vitality that put many younger men to shame. He sat on a magnificent carved chair, as befitted his rank and importance, his long robe arranged in neat folds about him. Arrayed before him on the grass, sat three boys, upright and attentive, and hanging on to every word of the old scribe.

  Ankhesenpaaten approached quietly and sat down on a bench nearby, under the shade of a small flowering tree. The red blossoms gave off a faint perfume that competed unsuccessfully with her own perfumes. Keneben acknowledged her presence with a tiny nod, not interrupting his lessons. She nodded back, slow and regal, content to sit back and listen to the old man expound to the boys. One of them, the smallest, caught the old man's nod and turned to look, grinning delightedly as he saw Ankhesenpaaten.

  "Pay attention, Prince Tutankhaten," Keneben snapped, before resuming his dissertation. The small boy started guiltily and looked back, one of the other boys, a tall Nubian boy, smiling at his discomfiture.

  "It is in my mind to talk of mathematics today, children," Keneben said. "Mathematics, or the language of numbers, comes from the gods and governs every aspect of our Kemet, our lives and our deaths." One of the boys groaned and Keneben stopped talking, fixing the culprit with a steely eye. "You do not approve, master Hiknefer?"

  The tall Nubian, who had smiled a little earlier, looked embarrassed at first, before putting on a show of bravado. "I can see that it might be useful to count one's herds, or..." he sniggered. "Or one's wives, but why should a king need to do more? He will have scribes around him for that."

  Keneben nodded amiably. "You are sure you will be a king, Prince Hiknefer? Miam, where your father governs as a vassal of Kemet, will need a strong ruler, one who can discern the truth for himself rather than just take the word of his servants." He turned to the other Nubian boy, on the other side of Tutankhaten. "And what of you, Khai of Kush? Do you see any other uses for mathematics?"