Return to Thebes

by Allen Drury

  I have tried for a very long time to follow him, rationalizing much, excusing much, justifying much. When he asked me to stand at his right hand years ago as assistant high priest of the Aten, I did so, thinking I could thereby modify and guide and in some measure control his course. When I publicly recognized my son Horemheb and advised him to accept the honors and responsibilities his cousin desired to heap upon him, I did so in the thought, which Horemheb shared, that this too would be a modifying, guiding and controlling influence.

  It has not proven so, in either case. Were it not that Kemet long ago came to respect and revere my integrity and intelligence—not giving me love, but giving me something I value more because in my mind it is more important, namely respect—I should now myself be suffering the secret grumblings, the growing fear and hatred that surround Pharaoh in the minds of his people. Were it not that Horemheb, too, has been universally respected and admired for his diligence, his loyalty, his great shrewdness and his obvious deep love for Kemet, he would be suffering in the same way.

  Fortunately we have been able to escape opprobrium, retaining both the people’s confidence and Pharaoh’s, and it is this which not only gives us the opportunity but imposes upon us the obligation to assist in whatever is decided tonight. We will, in fact, assist in the deciding itself, for we are come now to the moment when all must be decided so that Kemet may be reborn and go on in the eternal glory that is rightfully hers.

  We have wasted too much time: the Two Lands have drifted too far. Now, very late, we must pull them back.

  In this enterprise my sister is the guiding force, as she has been the guiding force in so many things for the good of Kemet for so many years. I doubt if even now, confronted though we are by so many failures and misdeeds of Akhenaten, we should dare to even think of deposing him were it not for his mother’s indomitable character and implacable will. I can only imagine the endless hours, days, nights of torment she must have gone through these past three years to reach the point she has: for she was always a loving mother, and she, too, has traveled far, very far, with Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and Ankh-Kheperu-Ra before coming at last to the conclusion I think she has: that, for the good of Kemet, they must go.

  What form this will take we do not know—do not dare express as yet, though I think tonight we will.

  Possibly the gods will come to our aid and it will happen naturally, for Akhenaten is not well, that is obvious to all. He seems to be suffering not so much a sickness of the body, though of course he has never been really strong since his illness, as a sickness of the spirit. He is listless, more erratic, more uncaring. With it comes a sharper tongue, an inward-turning sarcasm, a more savage bitterness—when he rouses sufficiently to respond at all.

  Much of the time he stays alone and broods; now and again he calls me or Horemheb or my younger son, Nahkt-Min, whom he has now appointed vizier, to his side for halfhearted discussions of policy and government. More often he goes to worship the Aten with Smenkhkara and then they retreat to his favorite aerie, the ledge along the Northern Tombs overlooking the city and plain. At regular intervals Smenkhkara—I will say for him that he takes his “duties of government” with an almost touching earnestness and sincerity—travels upriver to Thebes or down to Memphis, makes his appearances at those two secondary and now half-deserted capitals, performs the ceremonies of the Aten and transmits a few desultory “orders” from his brother, so vaguely phrased that only ancient habits of obedience bring them even a semblance of response. “That canal for His Majesty’s commerce near the oasis of the Fayum might be deepened,” perhaps. Or, “It might be that an expedition to the western desert would find items pleasing to His Majesty.”

  Not—the canal must be deepened, you see. Not—an expedition will go and it will find thus, thus and thus for His Majesty. It is all a half-formed hint, a delicate, weary suggestion—almost, if you will, a dying suggestion.

  This is not how Pharaohs get things done.

  It is only in the realm of his religion and his household, unfortunately, that he still remains vigorous and demanding. The temples of the Aten flourish, though they have few worshipers. The wealth of Amon and the rest flow into their coffers, and from there directly into his. The compromise I once suggested—that the wealth and priesthoods of the two great gods be equally divided—vanished with the blaze of rage in which he destroyed Amon at Thebes on the day of his father’s entombment. It was not a very good compromise, probably, but at least for a year or two it did what I had hoped, prevented open conflict, preserved a semblance of uneasy peace between the two, re-established a little the mystique of Pharaoh as the impartial father of the land. But he was never impartial, really. Too long ago he became the slave of the Aten. And now he permits no other god to reign in the Two Lands, as he permits no other god than likable, amiable, stupidly easygoing Ankh-Kheperu-Ra to reign in his heart.

  Is it any wonder we of the Family feel so torn about them both? Akhenaten has a great residue of love and pity to draw upon in our hearts, for he was so perfect a youth and became so pathetic and unhappy a man. Smenkhkara has always been everyone’s favorite, because of his own sweet nature and because the blessings the gods gave him were never taken away. In many ways he is a replica of his father, tolerant, friendly, outgoing, lovable.

  I have sometimes thought it, never dared speak it even to myself, but now I do: it is a pity the terrible illness did not take Akhenaten and leave us Smenkhkara to succeed to the Double Crown. There would have been no problems with Amon, no problems of personal relationship, no problems of any kind. He would have married, had sons, done his duty; he might even have taken to the field and restored the Empire, for he has his venturesome streak and sometimes talks longingly of the campaigns he would like to go on if only his brother were not too jealous of his safety to permit it. He would have been good, kind, reliable, dull: just one more greatly popular, greatly respected, greatly loved Pharaoh, easily managed and easily controlled, taking his place in the eternal unchanging parade of Kemet’s rulers.

  Instead came Akhenaten.…

  And here we are.

  I do not know exactly what my sister has in mind for this evening, but I think in the family council that will be held before we confront the two Kings the basic question will have to be put: are they to be removed, and if so, how and by whom?

  I know that in the King’s House there are two instruments, once the decision has been reached. Hatsuret waits, carrying in his heart Amon’s burning desire for vengeance. And at the right hand of His Majesty stands my son Horemheb, whose ambition at last is beginning to frighten me, so boundless does it appear to be despite his outward dissemblings.

  It is not often that Sitamon and I make occasion to speak on an intimate basis: she is a good niece, I am a good uncle, our friendship is always amicable, we leave it at that. It is seldom she seeks me out for counsel or advice. Two weeks ago she did, however, telling me of her strange little exchange with Horemheb, which she thought—and I agree with her—revealed his desire to be Pharaoh. Yet how can he be Pharaoh? The line of succession is firm and clear, going straight to solemn little Tut, more uneasy every day as he senses the concern of his elders increasing about him.

  “Uncle,” he said to me just yesterday, when I was visiting the North Palace—climbing up on my lap as he used to do, which is no longer quite so easy, as he is growing rapidly heavier and I am in my sixty-fifth year—“must I be Pharaoh very soon, when Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and Ankh-Kheperu-Ra die?”

  For a moment I was so taken aback by this childish candor on a subject his elders have never yet expressed aloud to one another that I am afraid I must have looked a little foolish.

  “They are going to die, aren’t they?” he repeated with a bright insistence that suddenly frightened me so that I instinctively clapped a hand over his mouth. His startled eyes stared at me with such terror that I knew I must drop my hand instantly and hug him protectively to my chest.

  “You must never, never, never say such thi
ngs, Nephew,” I said, managing with great effort to make my voice calm and soothing to stop the trembling of his body and the surprised and terrified little noises that were beginning to whimper from his throat. “Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and Ankh-Kheperu-Ra are the Kings of the Two Lands. They are well and no one wishes them ill. Someday far, far off when you are a grown man and are married and have a family”—a thought I try to instill in him every chance I get, since we do not want any repetitions of what is going on now—“it may be that the god will call them to the Western Peak—”

  “Which god?” he demanded. “The Aten or Amon?”

  “Perhaps both,” I said soothingly.

  “I should like the Aten,” he said with a surprising firmness that brought a sudden terror to my heart. That repetition I had not foreseen. But he is only eight, and no doubt will presently forget it, and so I made my tone again deliberately hearty and comforting.

  “Perhaps the Aten, perhaps Amon, perhaps both,” I said with a studied indifference. “One does not know what the future holds, except that, as you truly say, you will indeed be Pharaoh when Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and Ankh-Kheperu-Ra are no longer on this earth. But that will be many, many years from now, and you must never discuss it with anyone, ever again. It does not become one who will one day be Pharaoh that he should gossip thus about his brothers.”

  This did what I intended it to do. He straightened up abruptly and slid off my lap, standing straight as a little soldier at my elbow.

  “The Pharaoh Tutankhaten,” he said solemnly, “will never gossip about his brothers to anyone again.”

  “That is good,” I said with equal solemnity. “Have I the word of a Son of the Sun on that?”

  “You have the word of a Son of the Sun,” he said, still with great solemnity. Then he gave a sudden sad sigh and became a little boy again. “But, Uncle, I do wish we could all be happy together in the Family as we used to be.”

  “So do I, Nephew,” I said, meeting the honesty in his eyes with honesty in mine. “But until the god—or gods—allows us to be so, we must all be strong and brave and show the world nothing and say nothing about it, not even to one another. Do you not agree?”

  “I agree,” he said, sounding much too old and tired for eight. “But I do wish it so.”

  “Come,” I said then, rising and taking him by the hand. “Let us go and look at the lion captured last week in the Fayum. They tell me he has a marvelous growl that says, ‘Tut-ankh-AAATTTEN! Tut-ankh-AAATTTEN!’”

  “Uncle,” he said, breaking into the sunny smile we do not see very often of late, “that’s silly. But let us go anyway and see him.”

  And so we did, and the subject, I hoped, was forgotten; though I am very much afraid it was not, for I saw him just this morning being taken in his chariot to the House of the Aten to do worship, and the look he gave me was once again knowing and troubled and far too old for eight.

  How Horemheb can contemplate that he will ever become Pharaoh under these circumstances, I cannot for the life of me see. It is as absurd as though I myself were to entertain such a thought. The succession is established and preordained. What we must all be thinking about now is how to bring it about as rapidly as possible, with as little disturbance to Kemet and with (I still hope with all my heart) as little hurt as possible to Akhenaten and Smenkhkara.

  There is a possibility—a very remote chance—that they might be persuaded to leave the throne. No Pharaoh has ever done such a thing—voluntarily—in all our history. But I am not talking of voluntarily. Perhaps we can trade them the throne for retirement together here, suitably housed, suitably honored, remaining as guardians of the Aten in the Aten’s city, while Tut returns to Thebes to re-establish Amon and restore the ma’at and power of the Two Lands—

  But what nonsense am I talking?

  Smenkhkara the easygoing lover of ease and luxury might agree. But embittered and unyielding Akhenaten?

  Never.

  What ever persuaded Aye, who has seen so much of tragedy and unhappiness in the House of Thebes (and I am afraid will yet see more), to entertain for even a moment such blithering thoughts!

  My desperate desire for compassion and compromise runs away with me.

  There is no easy way around this situation for any of us.

  We gather in my daughter’s palace an hour from now, and there we decide how best to go straight through, hoping we may somehow come out safely on the other side.

  ***

  Tiye

  I am getting old. I find that I am thinking often now, with frequent tears and deepening sadness, of the old bright days before trouble came upon this House. We were happy then. All was laughter, gaiety and pleasure. Nothing clouded our sky, from which Ra smiled benignly on us all. The world was filled with life and love and brilliant colors everywhere. Contentment—real contentment—blessed the House of Thebes and the fortunate people of our dear Two Lands.

  I see the contrast in far too many things today. To take one example: the temples. “Colors everywhere,” I said. Do you, too, remember how the great pylons looked, the giant figures of Pharaoh and the gods striding across the stone, painted in vivid reds and blues and yellows, with lovely gold and scarlet banners flying from every aperture? The palaces were lovely too, corridors, floors, doors, ceilings painted with a thousand scenes of gods, of Pharaoh, of comfortable domestic things and carefree hunting and fishing along the Nile. And on the river the bright sails going up and down, and in the streets the busy, happy bustle of our handsome people, the men dark and deeply tanned, the women fair, protected from the sun, gracefully languorous as they were carried by in litters and couches or, if assigned by the gods to a lower station in life, yet moving gracefully about their burdens with happy smiles, quick laughter, warm welcoming faces.

  All, all has changed. A drabness has come upon the land. Since my son closed all the temples save those of his jealous Sole God, the work crews that once kept all bright and shining with their constant attentions have been dispersed. Care and love are gone from the world. The colors of the giant statues and paintings on all temples but the Aten’s have faded and become splotchy, the banners are long since taken down and destroyed, the palaces themselves have been allowed to fall into shabby disrepair save in a few places where the orders of myself and Nefertiti have been able to preserve some semblance of former beauty. (She built her own temple to the Aten at Karnak. He did not dare object. It stands alone, a single note of brightness in the ruined surround.) On the river there is less and less color as if the boatmen were afraid to show it, and in the streets few smiles, little laughter, no longer the constant happy chatter—mingled so often with the sound of music, which also has almost vanished from our world—that used to fill Kemet with good will and laughter from Memphis to Karoy.

  A sullen sourness grips the land, a deep unease. Joy has fled from Kemet and with it the air of well-being that used to be the principal distinguishing feature of our divinely ordered life.

  It is because there is no order that this is so. It is because order—ma’at—the eternal fitness of things—has been destroyed. It is because my son has remade our world in his own sad image and that of his hurtful, vengeful god.

  Long ago when his father and I first decided that we would dedicate him to the Aten, we intended the Aten to be a counterweight to then overweening Amon. We never contemplated that out of Akhenaten’s illness would come his great hatred for Amon and the other gods, or that out of his worship of the Aten would come his final decision to overturn them all and make the Aten, alone, supreme.

  Now the Aten is inescapable. His round, empty face and long spidery arms, ending in tiny hands conferring ankhs and gifts, look down upon us everywhere; and to him my son has given titles heretofore reserved for Pharaohs alone when they have celebrated jubilees of their reigns:

  “Live, Ra, ruler of the Horizon, rejoicing in the Horizon, in his role of light coming from the Sun’s Disk, giving life forever and to all eternity, Aten the living, the Great, Lord of Jubi
lees, Master of all that encompasses the Sun’s Disk, Lord of the Heavens, Lord of the Earth, THE ATEN.”

  So high has he raised him.

  I know he still conceives the Aten to be a sunny, bright and loving god. But seeing what has been done in Aten’s name, it has been long since the Aten has appeared that way to our people. In Akhenaten’s eyes—for he has told me so on many occasions—his “Father Aten” still gleams happy and beneficent above us all. In the eyes of the people he is a dark and vindictive god whose jealousy and intolerance of all others make him forever impossible to love.

  Such is the tragedy of my son Akhenaten. And such is the tragedy of our House, which now must deal with him, since the people cannot—and will not, so deeply instilled in them lies the fear and worship of Pharaoh, even when they know—know—what he is doing to the land. They would never dare rise against him; they would never dare risk the vengeance of centuries. In the land of Kemet, this is not done.

  Yet it must be done; and I, his mother, for many years Pharaoh in all but name of the Two Lands, must now perform a terrible service for my people. Nothing will be done unless I give the word: the Family waits upon me. So I must give the word, because there is no one else to give it, and nothing else left to do.

  I see them both, in those early happy days: Akhenaten running and leaping down the sandy pathways of Malkata, ten years old, shortly before the illness struck; Smenkhkara the newborn, crooning in my arms, suckling at my breast, beaming upon all the world with happy smiles and welcoming gurgles. They were such happy children. All my children have been happy children, though Sitamon is on her way to becoming a soured and disappointed old woman because marriage to her no longer has a place in Horemheb’s ambitions … and Tut is aging rapidly before his time as the weight of the Double Crown comes ever closer … and Beketaten goes about a shy and frightened little girl because she, too, senses gathering storms … and Akhenaten and Smenkhkara are far, far now from the innocent and carefree days when we all laughed and loved one another in harmony and happiness in the Palace of Malkata.…