by Allen Drury
I envy my husband, sleeping peacefully in the Valley of the Kings beneath the Peak of the West, because he does not have to make the decision I must make. Were he alive, of course, he never would, because he was always weaker than I. He would flinch and smile and ease away from it, as he did from so many unpleasant things that, looking back, were clearly unmistakable warnings. We used to worry about these things, sometimes sharing our worries, sometimes not, but each sensing the other’s concerns. From time to time it would come into the open: I would urge upon him some course of action—insist upon it, finally, for the good of Kemet. Sometimes he would comply and sometimes not. When he did, things righted temporarily; when he did not, they continued their downward slide. Never could he control Akhenaten, and as his health failed so steadily in those later years, he lost even the desire to try.
So came the awful and disgraceful day of his entombment, the destruction of Amon and the other gods, the final ascendance of Akhenaten and the Aten, the putting aside of Nefertiti, the shameless enthronement of Smenkhkara in intimate co-regency with his brother, the full impact, at last, of all Akhenaten’s crazy dreams upon the Two Kingdoms. Because I think he is crazy—literally insane, and far gone now from any place where we who love him can reach him any more.
I blame myself for this, as I blame us all—but myself most of all, for I am his mother and it must have been my failure, somehow, that started it all: though I cannot honestly see how. I tried, I did my best. I have always thought to love and save him: but I failed.…
The hours I have wept for him, the Niles of tears I have shed! Even now, as I make ready to leave for the North Palace, I am shedding more. But something cold lies deep inside, at last. It is not my son—my sons—I weep for any more. It is for two alien beings, and for us who at last must regard and treat them as such if Kemet is to be saved from their infinite and awful folly.
I believe I have the support of my brother Aye, my nephew Horemheb and of Amonhotep, Son of Hapu. I am not so sure of my daughter-in-law, for I think her love still lives as it used to do, with something of the happy innocence of Malkata still alive beneath all the unhappy bitterness of these recent years. I think she also still believes in the Aten, which I have come to regard, I think realistically, as an experiment that failed.
Had Akhenaten been stronger, more insistent, had he moved from the beginning to impose his will as a Pharaoh should, instead of being so gentle, so cautious, so anxious to win the people to Aten through love instead of fear, then he might have achieved the religious revolution he sought and rid our House forever of Amon. But he wanted the people to come to the Aten of their own free will and he waited too long for them to do it. Then when he finally became enraged and decided to force them, it was too late and he went too far. And so the Aten’s temples stand empty save for fawning priests who flatter him, and the nobility and sycophants of the Court who must worship as Pharaoh directs if they would keep their positions, wealth and power. Among the people, Hatsuret and his spies tell us—we think accurately—the time is ripe for Amon and his fellows to return.
But before Amon can return my sons must go: the bargain of the gods is as simple and as ruthless as that.
Later tonight we will confront the two Kings, ostensibly to argue out the question of what is to be placed in the tombs of Huy and Meryra to depict the coronation durbar. On the surface it will be an argument decided before it is begun, for Akhenaten of course will have the final say as long as he is Pharaoh. If he wishes to depict the durbar in all its pathetic “living in truth” reality, instead of as a dignified and opulent ceremony designed to strengthen and preserve through all eternity the hitherto glorious image of the Eighteenth Dynasty, then he can order it done. But before we argue that we will have met at the North Palace and there other decisions will, I think, have been reached; and they may influence him far differently than he now dreams.
My tears are drying as I prepare to go. They may never flow again for my sons or for their mother, who will perform her last service for her beloved land of Kemet though it kills her heart forever in the breast that nourished them.
***
Anser-Wossett
I have been first lady in waiting to Queen Nefertiti since we both were girls, and steadily in these past three years my heart has been wrung with pity for her, as hers has been wrung with sadness for her husband and the happy times they once knew together.
I have watched her age, something I never thought could happen when we were younger; and at the same time seen her become more beautiful, as maturity and suffering have eroded the youthful roundness and arrogant prettiness and transformed her into a stately, grave and truly beautiful woman.
Bek’s rising young assistant Tuthmose has captured this best, I think, in the portrait bust he has just completed. Wearing her blue conoidal crown, looking out upon the world with a subtle sadness, a knowing but indomitable serenity, she gazes quietly into the eyes of the beholder as I have often seen her gaze in these past three troubled years. Only once have I caught that gaze direct, and then it was to look into such depths of sorrow that I quickly found a pretext to excuse myself and went away to weep in private for the beautiful woman who has come, only to find that all has crumbled and turned hopeless in her hands.
For this I can never blame the Queen, for it is only Pharaoh who must bear the responsibility. Her fault, if any, has been in loving him too much, and continuing to do so long after all evidence and common sense said such devotion was foolish and fated to end in emptiness. She has refused to believe it—refuses, I think, even now. Of all the Court—perhaps in all Kemet—she is the only one who still clings to the hope that someday, somehow, they may be reunited.
But suppose they were, what would it profit her? Nefer-Kheperu-Ra has not much longer to live, I think, and it is better that she be far from his side when the vengeance of the gods falls at last upon his head.
This I believe it will, for I do not believe that even the Good God can so long and so outrageously challenge the gods and the very ka and ba, the very soul and essence, of the Two Lands, without coming eventually to judgment. In my opinion, though I know the Queen has always supported him in his heretical ideas (something it took me long to forgive her, and only my deep love for her gentle person and my ever growing admiration for her indomitable character finally persuaded me to do so), judgment is long overdue. Vengeance will come, and it will destroy both Pharaohs. So are we told who still believe in Amon: and our number is as the sands of the Red Land, however much the Good God may have tried to discourage us and force us to worship his way during the strange unhappy time he has been on the throne.
Fifteen years—fifteen years! To think we have had to suffer him for fifteen years! They have flown so fast it seems impossible to believe it has been so long—were it not that the weary sorrow of my lady is as nothing to the weary sorrow of the land. We carry a constant depression in our hearts because of him. Laughter and joy are gone from Kemet. It has been long, too long, and retribution for it has been long, too long, in coming.
I speak occasionally with him who is known in Akhenaten’s Southern Palace as Peneptah, meeting him casually at an appointed place in the market, appearing to the unnoticing passers-by to be chatting easily of ordinary domestic things. Secretly we exchange gossip and information as we seem to stand innocuously talking in the sun. I do not reveal to Hatsuret any of the private affairs of the Queen, for my loyalty is first to her, which he respects; but he knows me as a loyal follower of Amon, and so he tells me something of the whispers that are running through Kemet. We talk also of hidden things within the Family, which both of us are in position to overhear and to know. Vengeance is coming, he says; and he told me only yesterday that it will come “from those closest to Pharaoh, whom he does not suspect.” He also told me that when I receive the sign from him—“which before long I think you will”—I should be prepared at once to disguise myself and the Queen—as if one could disguise that classic face!—and flee to hiding
in one of the villages south, toward Aswan.
“Our quarrel is not with Her Majesty,” he said, “though Amon knows she has abetted and encouraged the Heretic enough, through all these years. But Amon will forgive her if she will go quietly and nevermore appear upon the public scene. A modest house and a quiet living will be prepared for her and for you, and for three or four suitable servants to attend you. There you may live out your days unknown and unmolested. But she must not hesitate. When I tell you, and you tell her—go. Do not look back, either of you. Else will she, too, feel the vengeance of Amon, which is terrible and will devastate the land.”
“Must there be more devastation?” I asked, embittered. “Have we not had devastation enough? Must Amon compound Aten, and bloody us all in the process? Why will you not be content, Hatsuret—Peneptah”—correcting myself as he gave me a hasty glare of warning—“to simply reclaim the temples and the Two Lands from the Heretic? Must you run the risk of ruining everything as he has, in the bargain?”
“Vengeance will not be complete until he is dead and all his doings laid waste as he has laid waste Amon and the other gods,” he said in a harsh and unforgiving tone.
“You men love vengeance too much,” I said. “Why must there be more weeping in the Two Lands?”
“So that the Sole God will die forever,” he said in the same cold way. “Forever and ever, for millions and millions of years—so that no man hereafter will ever again dare to blaspheme and say that there is a single universal god supreme above all others. This is the reason we will destroy the Aten, and the Aten’s worshipers, and the sick cripple who has conceived blasphemy, and all his works of all kinds, forever.”
“You cannot destroy what is in men’s minds, Peneptah,” I said, “and though many condemn what he has planted there, not all will be able to forget it. It may outlive us all, for all your vengeance.”
“First we will have the vengeance,” he said with a grim assurance, “and then we will see.”
“I shall try to persuade Her Majesty as you suggest,” I said, dropping the subject because I could see that he could not and would not accept my prediction, which I think to be, unhappily, more likely to be true than his. “But I do not know that she will listen to me. It is not in her nature to flee.”
“Then she will die with him,” he said with a cold indifference. “And you, too, unless you abandon her and return to Amon in time.”
“I shall never abandon Her Majesty!” I exclaimed, shocked into a loudness of tone that brought his hand instantly clamped upon my arm.
“You will have the chance,” he said softly, “because you have been a loyal daughter of Amon. But it will not be offered twice. At the moment you receive word from me, in that moment you must decide. And so must she. There will be no second chance.”
“You do not frighten me, Hatsuret,” I said in a whisper that trembled despite my attempt to keep it steady.
“Amon is not interested in whether or not anyone is frightened,” he said. “Amon is interested in justice.”
“Vengeance!” I snapped. “Vengeance only, not justice!”
“The two are the same,” he said with an indifferent shrug, and turned away to leave me staring after him with too much dismay on my face, for I soon became aware that several were giving me curious looks. I quickly gathered up the two earthen pots with their characteristic blue-striped design which were my excuse for being in the market, went to my waiting litter and was carried home to the North Palace through the city’s bustling streets.
As we passed the King’s House there was a sudden stir, a blare of trumpets, a hurried falling away of crowds before the entrance. Out they came, arms about one another’s waists, no doubt on their way to worship at the House of the Aten. Pharaoh Akhenaten seemed sicklier than when I glimpsed him last, a month ago; it seemed to me that he leaned more heavily than usual upon Pharaoh Smenkhkara. Their chariot dashed past, the crowds instantly resumed their chatter and bustle, we all went swiftly on about our business. Oddly, it was almost as though the two Kings had never passed, so quickly did life resume its pattern and close over them like the Nile over a handful of sand.
I returned to Her Majesty much troubled, both by Hatsuret’s warnings and by this new sign that the Good God and the young Pharaoh really have no support at all among the people to sustain them: for I do not really wish them ill, knowing how terribly Her Majesty would be hurt if harm came to her husband. Knowing me so well, she of course perceived my mood and demanded to know what had disturbed me in the city. But I had neither the heart nor the courage to tell her of either thing. I passed it off with some story of seeing a child slip and fall fatally beneath the wheels of a passing donkey cart, but I do not think she believed me. In fact I know she did not, for she responded with a searching look from the lovely thoughtful eyes and remarked only:
“It is a time when many things trouble us. Let us pray to the Aten—or you to Amon, if you like—that all will come well for the Two Lands.”
“And for you, Majesty,” I said fervently. “Particularly for you, who have endured so much.”
“And with yet more to come, I think,” she said in a faraway tone, as if to herself, “… with yet more to come.”
Since then she has been lost in thought, withdrawn, remote, not participating as she usually does in the games and prattle of her daughters and of Tut and Beketaten. Now as we prepare for the arrival within the hour of the Great Wife, Her Majesty’s father Aye, her half brother Horemheb and Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, she remains silent, unresponsive, almost listless under my skilled hands as I assist her once again with the unguents and oils, the kohl for her eyes, the ocher for her cheeks, the sweet perfumes, all the familiar beautifications with which I have helped her prepare for appearances so many, many thousands of times.
She will rise to this occasion as to all others, of that I am certain; and I know even more certainly than I did when I spoke with Hatsuret that she will never flinch or flee from the vengeance of Amon, which now seems to be coming very close and surely will not be long delayed.
***
Nefertiti
“Fair of Face, Joyous with the Double Plume, Mistress of Happiness, Endowed with Favor, at hearing whose voice one rejoices, Lady of Grace, Great of Love, whose disposition cheers the Lord of the Two Lands.”
So did he have me described on the boundary stelae that ring the city and still carry these endearments, undisturbed.
Nefertiti, which means “A Beautiful Woman Has Come”—so was I named by my mother on her deathbed, in the hour of my birth.
And what is the object of all these brave and flowery words now, as faithful Anser-Wossett works diligently to hide my sorrow with lotions and ointments, sweet perfume and pretty things? What of the “Mistress of Happiness” now, when it is another’s voice at which the Lord of the Two Lands rejoices, and another’s disposition that cheers him in his lonely life? What remains for her who was “Great of Love” when love is denied and sent away to an empty and distant place?
For three years I have lived in the North Palace, nevermore seeing the Lord of the Two Lands save only on those rare occasions when we happen to meet unexpectedly while passing to or from worshiping the Aten. We do not speak, our glances hardly cross. I am afraid I cannot keep some lingering entreaty out of mine when they do: in return I receive nothing but a frozen stare. Whether this truly represents his feelings or whether he looks thus to avoid showing more genuine emotion, I do not know and probably will never know. I like to think it is because he dares not look at me naturally for fear of what his eyes would show. But that may be pretending to myself. It may all be as dead as my heart so often feels.
Beside him always is my cousin Smenkhkara, performing the weak pretext of government that Akhenaten no longer favors with his attention. But though he is still diligent about his visits to Memphis and Thebes, Smenkhkara is growing a little indolent as he grows more secure in his brother’s affection. He is tending to become increasingly like his fat
her, a lover of luxury, indulging himself—and being indulged—in fine food, fine wines, fine jewelry. Another year or two and he will no doubt begin to grow a bit fat, the golden perfection will soften and bloat: give him five years and he will waddle. But I do not expect even that to turn my husband from his obsession, so closely have their lives become entwined.
Nor do I expect it to have any effect on my selfish and hateful daughter Merytaten, who lords it over the Southern Palace as though she were the Chief Wife, or possibly even the Great Wife herself. Nothing suits her better than to have things stay exactly as they are, for she exercises my rights, my privileges, my honors with none of the responsibility—and none of the concern for Kemet—that always marked my conduct when I was at her father’s side. She was always ambitious, always grasping, always shrewish, even as a child. Now she has it all, and makes sure that I know it. Possibly this is because I used to punish her from time to time, used to impose a stern and evenhanded discipline upon all the girls but particularly upon her and Ankhesenpaaten, who has many of the same characteristics but has learned under my tutelage to modify them to more subtle and more skillful ways. I do not know: I know only that she is hurtful to me and encourages both her father and her uncle-husband to continue in their foolish and fateful lives.
Thereby she invites upon herself the retribution that may fall upon them. I hope she will be happy with her bargain, if that time comes.
