by Allen Drury
Queen Tiye stares down upon her still prostrate figure with a look both wondering and compassionate. Gently she rises, steps forward, reaches down and brushes a fallen strand of hair from the Chief Wife’s sweat-drenched forehead.
“Do not worry, Niece,” she says gently. “I shall try to be fair to all. Though the gods help me”—and suddenly she gives us a wild look, almost as though we were not there, swept away again into the world of our terrible decisions, twice as terrible for her, their mother—“though the gods help me, I do not know how!”
“Good!” Nefertiti cries, leaping to her feet like a girl, wildly excited and happy, while the old Queen gropes blindly for her brother’s arm and with his help blindly descends from the throne. “Oh, thank you, Majesty, thank you!”
And she rushes to the door, flings it open, forgetting—probably for the first time in her entire life—how she will appear to the servants—and claps her hands furiously.
From all sides they come running.
Two minutes later we are in the chariots on our way across the still busy nighttime city—past the brightly lighted shops and bazaars where buyers and shopkeepers haggle over bread and meat and vegetables, past the shrilly whistling hawkers of candy and fine linens, the donkey carts pushing through with their loads of straw, the casually strolling soldiers, hand in hand, who know nothing of the terrible drama our hurried passage represents as we race by, scattering them momentarily before they close placidly behind us—on our way to the South Palace to see the two Kings.
Behind us in the doorway Nefertiti stands watching, a strange mixture of triumph, terror and sorrow on her face. Tears are once more running unheeded down her cheeks.
In the savage light of the torches she looks like an avenging goddess—ecstatic, but shaken to the heart in her moment of victory.
She is still a very beautiful woman.
***
Akhenaten
(life, health, prosperity!)
“Brother,” he says nervously, standing close by the window in the South Palace, peering to the north across the low jumbled roofs of the city, “I see a little group of torches moving this way. They come quickly, as if on horses or chariots. I think they come our way.”
“So?” I inquire dryly, for you and I have learned, Father Aten, that this is the way to calm this simple child who is Co-Regent, King and Pharaoh of the Two Lands as I am, yet at many moments is still just my worried and uncertain little brother in need of my comforting. “So? Are the Lords of the Two Lands to tremble like women thereby?”
“I do not tremble like a woman!” he says, half indignant but turning to smile at me. “It is just”—his expression changes abruptly again to one of nervousness and concern—“that I do not like the thought of having to do battle with our mother.”
“There will be no battle,” I say, raising myself awkwardly from my throne, hobbling carefully down the steps of the dais, shuffling over to stand beside him, my arm reassuringly around his waist.
“She is the Great Wife,” he says uncertainly, leaning close against me as if for protection.
“And I am Nefer-Kheperu-Ra Akhenaten, King of the North and South, Living Horus, Son of the Sun, Great Bull, King and Pharaoh of the Two Lands, He Who Has Lived Long, Living in Truth—and all the rest of it,” I say, trying to josh him from his mood. “And not even the Great Wife, I warrant you, will dare to attack me.”
“But I am not these things,” he says with a little shiver I can feel run through his body. “I was not born so, I am not so, save by your grace.”
“Or if I should die,” I say, still lightly. “Then you would be all this by full right, for it is all yours by blood as next in line, should I no longer be here.”
He gives me a long, searching, sidelong glance, his face completely serious, determined, young.
“I will never let anyone harm you,” he assures me solemnly.
“And I,” I respond, my voice croaking suddenly with emotion, “will never let anyone harm you, either.”
Suddenly we kiss, not lingeringly and lovingly as we often do, but with a terrible desperation.
Yet why should we both be afraid, Father Aten? We are under your protection, and all we do is guarded by love.
Below the guards come jangling to attention. Horses’ hoofs ring on pavement, the sweating animals snort and puff. Bustle fills the corridors, shouts and sounds of arrival echo through the South Palace.
Reluctantly we release one another and he assists me back to the dais. Leaning heavily on his strong right arm, yet still having to drag myself painfully and by sheer force of will, as I must increasingly do in these recent months when my body seems to weary along with my mind, I remount the throne.
“Her Majesty the Great Wife, the Divine Father-in-law and Councilor Aye, the General Horemheb, the Sage Amonhotep, Son of Hapu!” the Guardian of the King’s Own Room shouts from beyond the door.
“In a moment!” I call back sharply. “When the Good God is ready!”
Quickly Smenkhkara hands me the crook and flail, adjusts the pleated kilt over my knees, settles the golden headdress more gracefully about my shoulders, adjusts the towering blue linen Double Crown more firmly on my head, makes sure the uplifted cobra head of the uraeus is centered exactly above my forehead. Then he quickly adjusts his own regalia, exactly similar to mine, and takes his seat on the throne at my right hand.
Then, and only then, when all is ready, do I raise my voice and, aided by your loving strength, O Aten, and his, call out in a strong and commanding voice that miraculously does not fail me but sounds strong and steady:
“Bid those enter who wish audience with the Kings of the Two Lands!”
***
Amonhotep,
Son of Hapu
They greet us like two golden statues, seated on their double throne. In spite of all we know, all we think, all we plan, it is impossible not to be awed by the ancient mystery. Aye, Horemheb and I fall to our knees, touch our foreheads to the floor in ritual greeting. Only the Great Wife remains standing, rigid and unyielding in her golden garments, crowned head high, eyes staring fearlessly into theirs.
“You have not provided chairs for us, my sons,” she says in a clear, level voice. “I did not rear you to show such discourtesy to those to whom courtesy is due.”
She pauses expectantly while Aye, Horemheb and I rise. No expression crosses Akhenaten’s face, and after a lightning sidewise glance to see what he should do, Smenkhkara sets his face in the same unyielding pattern. The silence lengthens, begins to turn awkward. Anger, for her and for us, begins to fill our hearts. Once again Nefer-Kheperu-Ra has misjudged the world in which he lives.
“You wished to see me about something?” he inquires, ignoring her question. For a split second we can sense her debating whether to force the issue, order Aye to call up servants with chairs—which I do not think even Pharaoh, lost as he is in dreams of the Aten and arrogance, would dare countermand. We can also sense Smenkhkara’s instinctive protest at this brutal treatment of their mother, even as we sense his immediate helpless resignation as he realizes he cannot defy his brother.
Then we sense her decision: No, let him act like this, if he is fool enough. It will only strengthen our resolve.
“Very well,” she says, and with serene grace turns gravely and beckons us forward. Not looking at the two Kings, we advance, Aye at her right hand, Horemheb and I respectfully a half step behind, he on the right beside his father, I on the Great Wife’s left.
“Are you comfortable now?” Akhenaten asks with a biting sarcasm; and serenely she replies, “Yes, my son, and we thank you for your courtesy in granting us audience this night.”
“What is it you wish to discuss?” he asks; and as she did with Nefertiti, Queen Tiye decides to be blunt. Her resolve, we realize, goes even deeper than we imagined.
“Your shameful order to Huy and Meryra that their tombs should depict the durbar solely with your brother and yourself, instead of in the traditional w
ay with the Chief Wife, your daughters and the tribute of the Nine Bows and all our vassals and allies, as befits the dignity and honor of this House,” she says calmly, biting off the concluding phrase with an emphasis that shows she does not desire to take any nonsense.
Neither, of course, does he.
“Mother!” he says sharply, hunching forward awkwardly on his throne and glaring at her from his slanting, wide-set eyes. “Madam! The dignity and honor of the truth are more important than the dignity and honor of this House. And do you not forget that this is what my Father Aten tells me, and this is what I believe.”
“Then you are a fool,” she says coolly, and instinctively we gasp, for no one has dared talk to a Pharaoh like this before, not even a mother. But the Great Wife has made up her mind at last, and there is no mistaking, of course, where his iron comes from. She gave it to him: it is only natural that she should get it back. Which she does.
“Not as great a fool as those who would deny the truth!” he says with a sharpness equal to hers. “In which category, Madam, I find you now. I have given my order to Huy and Meryra that the durbar shall be pictured as it was, Ankh-Kheperu-Ra at my side, the few paltry tributes we had—”
“And whose fault is that?” she interrupts angrily. “Who has let the Empire dwindle to nothing? Who has been so lost in his games with the Aten—and with his brother—”
“Careful, Madam!” he cries angrily, his voice beginning to get its emotion-filled croak. “Mother, be careful!”
“So lost with these things that he has paid no attention to keeping Kemet strong, he has let all slide, he has abandoned all, he has been no Pharaoh but a play-King doing futile things for empty and futile purposes!” she shouts above his bitter protest, and then, womanlike, begins to cry. But there is no question of this being weakness. They are tears of anger, and she dashes them angrily from her eyes as she hurries on, permitting him no chance to reply.
“You have let the Two Lands fall into chaos and corruption! You have made a mockery of government! You have made of Kemet, and of yourself and your poor brother, a laughingstock to the world! You have lowered this House and this Dynasty to the ground! You have debased not only yourself but all of us with your foolish Aten and your wild crazy doings! And it must stop.”
And, breathless, she stops, continuing to cry, continuing to dash away the tears with a furious, impatient anger. Only her heavy breathing and his fill the room: the rest of us, including poor Smenkhkara, who now looks scared to death and even younger than his twenty brief years, scarcely dare breathe at all.
It is obvious that he is going through an intense inner struggle. Tentatively at last his brother reaches out and grasps his arm, with something of the same soothing gesture we used so often to see Nefertiti employ with his rages in his younger days. But he is much older, the rages go deeper and last longer: it will take more than Smenkhkara’s frightened little gesture to calm him now.
“Majesty,” he says at last, words barely distinguishable in the harsh croak of his terrible emotion, “I think you had better go and take your fellow traitors with you. I shall not punish you as you deserve, for you are my mother, and all of you are—” He hesitates for a second and then changes the word as he appears to be swept by a sudden gust of feeling—can it be regret and sadness, can those actually be tears in the eyes of our strange, strange Nefer-Kheperu-Ra? “Since all of you are—my—my family. But I do not want you come near me again, or try to communicate with me in any way, or defile and defame Father Aten, or Ankh-Kheperu-Ra, or me, ever, ever, ever again. Go! Go! Go!”
Again there is silence while he stares at us like some wounded animal cornered and filled with bitterness and hate. We are stunned, we do not move. He is pale and quivering with the emotion and effort of it all, looking suddenly as though Anubis, guardian of the grave, were touching him urgently on the shoulder and might not long delay calling him to the West. At his side his brother looks equally stricken, but in a way typical of poor Smenkhkara, who must now pay the penalty we have decided upon for his brother’s intransigence: he looks stricken for his mother, whom he loves, for his brother, whom he loves, and for us, whom he loves. His concern is all with others, not with himself. How sad that such a goodhearted lad must die for no other crime, really, than simply being too goodhearted.
But this will come a little later, in some way no doubt already planned by Aye and Horemheb. For the moment they must make one last attempt to bring the Good God back to reason, before they can finally feel themselves free to proceed as they must.
“Does Your Majesty mean to strip me of all my powers and duties as Councilor?” Aye inquires at last in a low and trembling voice.
“I have told you,” Akhenaten replies, obviously with a great effort but unrelenting: “Go!”
And so, after a few further seconds of uncertainty, Queen Tiye, still weeping, gestures us toward the door. Aye is weeping, Horemheb (quite genuinely, I believe) is weeping; I, too, weep for them all, for tragedies past and tragedies yet to come.
At the door I cannot resist a quick glance backward.
There on their thrones, holding one another in a desperate grasp whose terrible desolation communicates itself to me like a blow, the two mighty Kings of the Two Lands are weeping too.
How strange and terrible can families be, whose members sometimes do such awful things to one another.
We go to the beautiful little palace of the Great Wife on the bank of the Nile, there to set in motion the fate the gods have decreed for him who thought he could destroy the gods.
***
Merytaten
I do not know what happened when they all met last night, because Smenkhkara will not tell me. All I know is that this morning he is moping about, bursting into sudden tears, uttering unintelligible sounds, acting like a sickly girl, which I often think he is. I have never understood my father’s infatuation for him: to me he has always seemed the weakest—if, no doubt, the prettiest—of the Family. I have suffered him as husband because that is what the needs of the Dynasty require, but I am glad to say I have never let him touch me—even had he wanted to, which he has not.
I have suffered him also because it is not only the needs of the Dynasty that concern me. If my father dies, as his poor health and uncaring ways with food—I doubt if he eats enough now to keep a bird alive—may soon guarantee, then my puling child of an uncle-husband will become the only King, supreme in power and authority, omnipotent Pharaoh of the Two Lands. No one will dare challenge him, no one will dare control him, no one will rule the ruler—save one.
I will. And presently, when he has served my purposes sufficiently—when with his spineless agreement I have removed my mother and my grandmother forever from any power in Kemet—maybe even removed them from life itself, if the gods do not soon do the task for me—then I shall consider what to do about him. After I have accomplished that, Kemet will have another Hatshepsut (life, health, prosperity!) to rule and strengthen the Two Lands anew.
I can do it. I have the strength. I have the courage. I am capable of it all. They tend to dismiss me as a domineering, unpleasant, interfering girl, but they do so at their peril. None of them will be safe from the Pharaoh Merytaten (life, health, prosperity to me!) when the time comes for me to strike.…
Thus do I dream, particularly on days like today when my pathetic stick of a husband shows himself in all his pretty weakness. I despise him. I despise them all. Maybe what I dream is nonsense but I do not think so. Everybody around me is weak except my mother and my grandmother, Aye and Horemheb. What nature does not dispose of, I can, if I plan carefully enough. And I will. I have little else to do but think about it all day long. I am quite capable of it. They will see.
Now I think I hear him coming: there is a sniffling in the hall. Yes, here he comes, still wiping his eyes with the back of a hand. But he has stopped crying, I think. In fact, he looks quite excited and, surprisingly, of a sudden quite happy. He is not alone. Peneptah, the bearded new scribe
who has entered my father’s house, is with him. I have noticed Peneptah for some time. He appeals to me. He too, I think, is very strong. He is also very manly and exciting in that way, too. Hatshepsut (life, health, prosperity!) had her Senemut as builder, councilor, lover and strong right arm to smite her enemies. Why should not Merytaten (life, health, prosperity to me!) have her Peneptah?
But now the weakling speaks.
“The Great Wife has sent me a beautiful scarab by this messenger!” he says excitedly. “Good Peneptah has brought it to me as a proof of her love! She does not hate us after all!”
“I did not know she hated you,” I say coldly, though I cannot resist a quick, secret, amused little glance at Peneptah, who returns it with equal humor, and as furtively.
“You were not there last night,” Smenkhkara says, and for a moment looks as though he might burst into tears again. But he is too excited by this bauble from his mother, which to me means nothing but to him, in the context of their apparent quarrel, seems to mean everything.
“So she has sent you a scarab,” I say, letting my voice become mocking. Peneptah again gives me a secret little smile behind my uncle’s back.
“Yes, here it is!” he says, still sounding like an excited child, and opening his hand, reveals it to me. It is indeed a beauty, large and finely carved, made of carnelian with inlaid wings and eyes of lapis lazuli. I must confess it appeals to me simply for itself. It must come from her private collection, and be very old. Perhaps it was even worn by Hatshepsut (life, health, prosperity!) Suddenly I am sure of it.
“Can I have it?” I ask bluntly while Peneptah smiles benignly in the background and encourages me with little winks and nods.
“Well—” Smenkhkara hesitates, and then says doubtfully, “It should be washed, I think. It gives off an odor of some sort. It stains my hands.” He holds them out to me, and indeed there is a whitish dust upon them.
