The Amarnan Kings, Book 2: Scarab - Smenkhkare

by Overton, Max

  After a day of settling in to their new rooms, Tutankhaten and Ankhesenpaaten were whisked off to a series of small ceremonies in the hastily refurbished temples of various gods, culminating in the great temple of Amun, where, with a notable lack of ostentation, the young prince and princess were formally married. The coronation would follow in about a week's time, when both young royals would be confirmed as King and Queen of the Two Kingdoms. All reference to Akhenaten would be removed from the ceremony, with people's minds fixed on the bright new future. In the meantime though, came the sad duty of the previous king's burial.

  By custom, the heir to the throne led the procession through the city, led the prayers for the dead king's safe passage through the underworld, and was responsible for the ritual 'opening of the mouth' whereby the Ka of the king could once again enjoy the offerings left behind by the mourners. The problem was, Smenkhkare had no body to be buried and far from being in any danger passing through the underworld, had by now passed through the gut of the crocodile and was in no fit state to enjoy anything. It was necessary for the ritual to be carried out, however, if only to show Tutankhaten as the rightful heir to the throne of Kemet.

  So it was that on the third day after arriving in Waset, Prince Tutankhaten and his wife Ankhesenpaaten walked through the streets of Waset in an abbreviated procession from the palace to the great palace of Amun. Behind them walked Tjaty Ay and Meryetaten, the ostensible widow of the late king, bereaved but not grieving. The King's Councilors were there too, though not all of them, and they walked hedged close about by guards. Priests met the young heir at the temple gates and he was guided into the inner sanctum where, under the watchful eye of the Tjaty and the new First Prophet Bakt, he stumbled his way through the prayers and offerings.

  Devotions over, the young Prince and Princess moved toward the royal docks with the priests and high officials following. They crowded aboard the funeral barge, Tutankhaten and Ankhesenpaaten sitting in state beneath the central awning. The barge moved slowly out into the broad river, the oarsmen digging in their oars and straining as the strong current heeled the barge over. Spray flew, soaking the garments of the mourners and the call of the master rose urgently into the summer evening as he exhorted his men to greater efforts. The barge crabbed sideways across the river and drifted over the flooded fields on the western side. They made good progress now, the deep-digging oars stirring up great swirls of mud in the shallow water, the scarlet tips of the oar blades more often covered in the silty deposition of the flood as they raised aloft in the dying rays of the sun.

  The barge ran aground just short of the great funeral temple of Nebmaetre Amenhotep, the funerary priests waiting by a gangplank of boards constructed to carry the mourners dry-shod from barge to land. Stalwart slaves lifted the young royals, the Tjaty, officials and priests from the deck and sloshed through the shallow water, depositing their burdens on the dry boards. The soldiers and their prisoners, the King's Councilors, had to walk unaided. One of them, Physician Nebhotep, lagged behind, making a great show of limping. The Captain of the Guard, anxious to perform his duties impeccably in the presence of Ay, snapped angrily at the physician before ordering another prisoner, Aanen, recently the second prophet of Amun and brother to the Tjaty, to help him.

  Aanen waded back to the limping doctor and put his arm around his waist. "Are you hurt, Nebhotep?" he asked solicitously.

  "Not at all," Nebhotep murmured. "I have seldom been in better health."

  Aanen's arm slipped as the priest stopped suddenly. "Then why..."

  "Keep walking, Aanen. You are supposed to be helping me." Nebhotep waited until they were both moving forward again. "I intend to escape."

  Aanen said nothing but his expression expressed his doubt.

  "It is my only chance. Once we return to the palace we will never leave it alive. We have only been kept alive to be seen with Ay and Tutankhaten. Once we have given our unspoken blessing on the succession, we shall be removed."

  "I cannot believe that." Aanen shook his head. "Ay will not just have us killed. It is preposterous."

  "No more so than killing the king. Do you doubt he did that?"

  Aanen shook his head again. "How will you escape?" he whispered.

  "I don't know yet. If all else fails I shall jump overboard on the return journey."

  "You would drown in the flood."

  "Better death at the hands of the gods than at the hands of Ay."

  Once the prisoners had made it to the boards, the procession formed up again, and this time led by the priests of the funerary temple, made their way to dry land. Within a dozen paces they passed from waterlogged soil to bone dry dust, proof if any were needed that the flooding came from the river, not the skies. The doors of the funerary temple were wide open, a blaze of torches banishing the encroaching darkness. Smenkhkare, as son of Nebmaetre Amenhotep, was granted the right to lie in honour in his father's temple, attended by the priests dedicated to his rites.

  "How is that possible?" Councilor Meres muttered, shifting his great bulk uneasily as the procession made its way into the inner precinct of the temple. "Smenkhkare's body was not recovered. How can he be here?"

  "It is not his body, you fool," hissed Scribe Kensthoth. "No more than it will be his body that the prince applies the Pesheskef, the Seb Ur and the Ur Hekau to. They have an effigy of the king. That is all."

  "Quiet!" the Captain of the Guard snapped. "Remember where you are."

  The funerary priests lifted the ornately carved and painted wooden casket, so large it was almost the size of the great stone sarcophagus, carrying it reverently as if it truly contained the body of the king and carried it outside the temple to the waiting ox-cart. Wheel-less, the massive wooden sled surged and hesitated as the beasts strained and heaved, pulling it over the pot-holed surface of the road toward the Great Place, the Valley of the Burial of Kings.

  Full night was on the funeral procession by the time it passed through the gates of the Great Place and into the Ka-haunted valley. Despite the crowd of burning torches and oil lamps, the blackness seemed impenetrable beyond the firelight. The prince looked warily into the darkness, his hand clutching that of his new wife. After several turns and an hour of heaving the great wooden sarcophagus over the rubble of the valley, the ox-sled ground to a halt near an unprepossessing mound of rocks and sandstone chips. The dark grave mouth yawned in front of them, waiting to be fed with the fruits of death.

  The sarcophagus was unloaded by the funerary priests with much grunting and straining, the soldiers finally having to lend a hand to wrestle the casket upright in front of the tomb steps. The painted golden face of a stylized king stared out at them from the casket lid. Painted hands, crossed over painted breast, grasped the crook and flail of kingly authority, the cobra and vulture of the Two Kingdoms adorning the wooden brow. Other priests brought food and drink, bread, meat and wine, and laid it on the ground near the casket before stepping back.

  Bakt advanced and started into the recital of the prayers for the dead king. His voice droned on and the watchers and listeners shifted uncomfortably on the stony ground, shivering in the chill wind that blew off the desert and shook the torch flames. The prayers finished abruptly and the Hem-netjer of Amun handed Prince Tutankhaten the Pesheskef, bidding him touch the lips of the image with the tip. The boy nodded and advanced on the upright casket, the adze-like tool raised.

  "I open the mouth of my lord Djeserkheperu," Tutankhaten said in a loud but shrill voice, He strained upward with the Pesheskef but fell short of the painted lips. He tried again, giving a little hop, but was again unsuccessful.

  "Let me help you, my lord." Ay moved forward and, old man though he was, grasped the young boy firmly and hoisted him up into the crook of one arm. "Open the king's mouth."

  Tutankhaten dutifully touched the adze to the casket then handed it down to Bakt, who handed him the next implement, the Seb Ur. The Ur Hekau followed and Ay nodded gravely, lowering the prince to the ground.
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  "I am confused." Kensthoth's clear voice filled the circle of light. "Has the heir opened the mouth of our beloved Djeserkheperu or has Ay caused it to be done? Who is our next king?"

  Ay whirled, his eyes and lips compressed, his fists opening and closing by his sides. "I am a loyal servant of the king," he hissed. "And that is more than can be said of you, scribe." He signaled to the Captain of the Guard. "Silence that man and keep him quiet. He disturbs the peace of this sacred occasion." The Captain nodded and a soldier cracked the old scribe over the head with the butt end of his spear. Kensthoth crumpled, a gash on his head leaking bloodily into the dry dust.

  Ay nodded in satisfaction and turned back to the tomb. "Continue."

  The funerary priests heaved at the heavy casket and slowly tipped it and lowered it into the tomb entrance. It teetered on the edge of the steep stone steps cut into the rock and finally, restrained by ropes and sweating men, descended into the depths of the chill earth. Lit torches descended with it as the priests wrestled the sarcophagus into a small chamber at the end of a short stone corridor. The priests returned to the surface and brought down the baskets of food and jars of wine, arranging them close to the casket. Others carried down grave goods, though the quality was not high and in many cases the finer articles were mere models of the right things. The burial itself was quickly finished. Three workmen, who had appeared tardily from the village outside the gates of the valley, filled in the stone wall at the bottom of the steps before applying a coat of plaster. One of the funerary priests pressed the official seal into the wet plaster and Bakt, as Hem-netjer of Amun, added his mark.

  "That's it?" Aanen muttered. "A king of Kemet is buried with such a miserly display? They tempt the gods."

  Leaving some of the guards behind to watch as the workmen filled in the stairwell with rubble, the funeral party started back down the valley, Councilors Kenamun and Meres supporting a dazed and groggy Kensthoth.

  "We have a chance," Nebhotep murmured as he stumbled down the trail beside Aanen. "There are fewer guards now."

  "Where will you do it?"

  "Are you not coming with me, Aanen?"

  The priest shrugged, falling silent as the Captain of the Guard walked back down the file. They passed out of the gates and down the road toward the funerary temple complex and the waiting barge. As they neared the temples, the oxen and sled was led off to one side and most of the priests departed also, bowing low to Ay and the Prince and Princess. The head priests continued down past the temples toward the vast sheet of water that spread out before them, the distant lights of the eastern city casting arrow-thin streaks of gold and copper on the glassy surface.

  Tutankhaten, who had been very quiet since leaving the burial valley, walking arm in arm with his older wife, stopped suddenly. "I want to visit my father Nebmaetre in his temple," he announced, an obstinate look on his face.

  Ay's face reflected surprise and annoyance. "This is not a good time. You can come back tomorrow."

  "I don't want to come back tomorrow. I want to see him now." The boy screwed up his face and stamped his foot.

  Ankhesenpaaten smiled at Ay. "Is my lord Tutankhaten not within his rights, my lord Ay? I understood that as heir, his word was law."

  "Oh, very well." Ay looked edgily at the prince as he started back toward the temple gates, the priests fawning about him, then at the captive Councilors standing with the guards. He hesitated. "Captain, get the...the prisoners on board. I shall be with the Prince."

  "Lord Ay," the princess called. "You are required to attend upon the heir, together with an honour guard."

  Ay swore, signaling to the Captain and three soldiers to follow him. "Get them aboard," he hissed at the remaining three soldiers. They saluted and started herding the Councilors onto the boards that led over the flooded fields to the royal barge.

  Aanen moved closer to Meres and Kensthoth. "We are going to escape," he whispered. "There will not be a better opportunity."

  Meres looked fearfully at the remaining guards carrying burning brands and spears, then at the surrounding water. "Escape where? And why? We are well treated."

  "Speak for yourself," Kensthoth grumbled. "But you are right, friend Aanen. You should try to escape. Find the princess Beketaten."

  "You do not believe she is dead?" Aanen nodded. "Perhaps you are right." The priest glanced around, noting their positions near the end of the boards and the inky bulk of the barge lying in the darkness some twenty paces away. "The guards will have to put down either torches or spears to help us on board. There are only three of them. Either way, we scatter. They cannot catch us all."

  Kensthoth shook his head. "I am injured and friend Meres here is too fat. Make good your escape, Aanen. I will distract them." The old scribe lumbered into the water and splashed knee-deep toward the barge. "Help me up, guards, I feel dizzy and my head hurts..." He fell forward, grabbing at one of the guards, pulling him down into the water.

  The guard yelled and dropped both torch and spear as he tried to save himself. He rose spluttering, casting about in the muddy swirls for his spear. One of the others ran forward, hesitated, then stuck his spear point down in the mud, holding the torch aloft as he grabbed for his companion.

  Meres splashed forward too, yelling that Kensthoth was drowning, and to help the man. Sailors looked down from the deck of the barge and laughed. Two started to climb over the sides to help the soldiers but the barge master waved them back. Aanen, Nebhotep and Kenamun edged backward on the boards, the guard beside them staring at the watery melee, laughing. A nod and Nebhotep grabbed for the burning brand, wresting it out of the guard's hand and whirling it away across the water. At the same instant, Aanen pulled at the spear but the soldier held tight, his laughter turning into a roar of rage. Kenamun hit at him with a fist and the guard fell backward off the boards into the water.

  "Run!" Nebhotep yelled. He ran back along the boards but saw lights bobbing on the road that led to the temple and surmised the altercation had been heard. He jumped off into ankle-deep water and splashed off into the darkness.

  "Over there!" a sailor yelled, pointing, but nobody took any notice, too caught up in what was happening closer at hand.

  Aanen took to the water immediately, lifting his feet high as he attempted to leap free of the clinging water with each stride. Kenamun went with him, his feet slipping on the muddy bottom as he waded through the knee-deep water. He fell behind, his bulk slowing him.

  Behind them both, the fallen guard got to his feet and shouted after them, hearing the loud splashes and seeing the white foam as they churned the surface. He raised his spear and cast, the wet shaft whipping thin scatters of droplets as it flew. The point entered Kenamun's thigh, just below the left buttock, and he fell with an agonized scream, cut off as his head plunged beneath the surface.

  Aanen stopped dead and turned, looking back at the stricken toymaker-Councilor, then at the guard forging through the water, his sword drawn. With a muttered prayer to his god Amun, he resumed his floundering run, rapidly passing into the darkness of the flooded night.

  From the shelter of a clump of flooded palms only a hundred or so paces away, Nebhotep watched the drama unfold. He saw the priest floundering in the ever-deepening water as he waded further from the barge and called out to him, softly at first, then louder and more urgently. He heard and turned, eventually coming to the meager shelter of the palms.

  "Nebhotep, thank the gods. Did you see what happened to Kenamun?"

  The physician nodded. "He is not dead. I saw the soldier help him up and half carry him back to the boards."

  Aanen turned and watched the men milling about near the royal barge. He could easily make out the figure of his older brother Ay. "I don't see the prince."

  "Ay turned him back," Nebhotep said. "When he saw the disturbance he gave the royals into the care of the priests and brought the other guards back at a run."

  "What will he do?"

  "Ay? You know him better than I," Nebho
tep replied. "You tell me."

  Aanen considered. "He will make the best of it. After all, what harm can we do him? Had we remained Councilors, perhaps we could have argued against his policies. We effectively resigned when we ran."

  "Do you think he will pursue us?"

  "Not personally, but I think the guards will have a good motivation to hunt us down. Look." Aanen pointed to where Ay confronted the guards and remaining ex-Councilors on the boarded path. Despite the loss of several torches, enough light was still shed by the remainder to reveal the anger of Ay.

  "Fools! Imbeciles! I leave three trained soldiers to guard old men and fat slugs and you cannot even do that." Ay shook his fist under the noses of one of the soldiers, who quaked visibly. "How did it happen? You. You're the one who dropped his spear like some half-witted peasant. Answer me!"

  The soldier stammered, wanting to edge away from the Tjaty's anger but not daring to, afraid of angering him more. "He...he was h...hurt, sir. I w...went to h...help him and...and he pulled me down. I...I couldn't..."

  Ay backhanded him across the face, hard, sending the man reeling back a few paces. "Menre," he snapped. As the Captain of the Guard stepped up, Ay pointed at the man on the ground. "I want that man flogged. A hundred lashes."

  Menre bowed but hesitated. "A hundred lashes will kill the man, sir," he murmured.

  "Why should I care?" Ay turned away, his anger making his body shake. "A hundred lashes I said and if he survives he is to be dismissed. I will not have incompetents in my guard."

  The condemned man moaned and rolled his eyes but said nothing.

  "Yes, sir," Menre said reluctantly. "As soon as we return to the city." The Captain turned to his men. "Get these men aboard the barge."

  "No." Ay snapped. "Captain, you will kill these men right here and now."

  "Sir?"

  "You heard me. Kill them."