Return to Thebes

by Allen Drury

  At first I took no interest at all in government. Aye, Horemheb and Nakht-Min came to me as in a recurring dream, their words meaningless, their reports incomprehensible. Somehow Kemet continued to be governed, by them but not by me. I knew this was wrong, that I should bestir and reassert myself, but a great lethargy held my heart.

  And in spite of what I sensed about their part in the murder of my brother, I felt that I could trust them: I was still the Living Horus, and none, not even they who had wounded me so deeply, would dare betray me.

  More lately, I have not been so sure: but still the grief and lethargy have held me prisoner. I have eaten less and less, grown thinner and more grotesque. With increasing carelessness I have allowed my physical appearance and cleanliness to decline. Again, I have known this was not right, that pride and the dignity of Pharaoh should require me to do otherwise. But again, the great pain and dullness have made me listless and uncaring.

  So it has gone until a few short days ago. I do not know exactly what inspired the turning point, unless it was my surviving brother and now my heir, who came to me with a childish concern because he had not seen me for many months. Timidly he came alone in his chariot, surrounded by soldiers, from the North Palace where he lives with Nefertiti. Timidly he sent in word that he was here and asked to be admitted to my presence. My first instinct was to say no, as I have refused, until today, all requests from my wife. Then something made me relent, some memory of my own childhood, a realization of how little, how lonely and how lost he must feel in the midst of all these violently unhappy grownups; and so I reconsidered and bade them bring him in.

  “Brother,” he began, after he had prostrated himself dutifully at my feet and I had raised him up, “Your Majesty—how are you?”

  It was asked very simply and directly, as befits a child; and it revived with a sudden rush all the affection I have always felt for little Tut, who was such a happy baby and now has been made tense and over-old by all that has happened in his eight brief years.

  “I am not well, Brother,” I responded, beckoning him to sit beside me on the empty throne—the first of the only two I have so honored—“but your visit makes me feel better.”

  “Oh,” he said, eyes wide and earnest, “I am so glad. We have all been worried about you.”

  “Have you?” I asked with a smile, though I hardly believed it—at least not of my mother, Aye and Horemheb. “You are very kind.”

  “I have brought you a present to make you happy,” he said, and held out a brown little hand, clenched tight. Slowly he unfolded it, eyes gleaming with excitement, to reveal an exquisite pale blue faience pendant of the god Thoth in his aspect of the baboon. I still have a liking for Thoth, whose priesthood in the old days was quite small and never any real threat to me; and besides, he is the god of wisdom, scribes, learning and the arts, all of which I have respected and encouraged all my life. But I did not at once accept the gift, for through my mind there ran a sudden terrible warning:

  Beware! They killed Smenkhkara with poison. Perhaps they have sent this innocent child to wreak their evil upon you. Beware!

  “It is beautiful,” I said, keeping my voice calm but not for the moment taking it from his hand.

  “Why don’t you take it?” he inquired in a puzzled tone, his eyes concerned. “It will not hurt you.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, unable to keep the concern from my voice.

  “Look!” he said. “It does not hurt me.”

  And he lifted it, turned it over, shook it, placed it next to his face, sniffed it, licked it—all with a deliberate and knowing air that made me realize sadly that even at his age he must have come to understand the evil of his elders and the method they used to wreck my life.

  “No,” I agreed, smiling as I took it from his hand, “it does not hurt you and you have bravely proved that it will not hurt me. I shall treasure it and wear it on a gold chain around my neck as evidence that there is one of my family, at least, who cares for me.”

  “We all care for you,” he said earnestly, upset by my bitter tone; but I am afraid too much has happened for me to conceal my bitterness.

  “You are generous to think so, little Tut,” I said, “and I pray you may never have cause yourself to think otherwise. But I must warn you to be careful, as I must be careful, for the Son of the Sun has many enemies.”

  “I know it,” he said, looking suddenly quite as old as his apparent knowledge of the dangerous world in which we live. “It is very hard being Pharaoh, is it not?”

  “For me,” I said somberly, “it has been very hard. But for you, when it comes your time, I hope and believe it will be better.”

  “I am frightened,” he said in a wistful little voice that caused me to take his hand quickly and give it a reassuring squeeze.

  “You must not be,” I said firmly.

  “They say you may die soon,” he said in the same remote little voice, “and that then I will have to be Pharaoh. And I am frightened.”

  “I do not intend to die yet,” I said, sounding more positive than I often am about this: often it seems I may die naturally at any moment, even if they do not succeed in making me die unnaturally. “It will be many years before you must assume the Double Crown. By then you will be a man, big and strong, and no one will dare frighten or do harm to the new Son of the Sun.”

  “I hope so,” he said in the same wistful fashion. “Oh, Brother, I hope so!”

  “It will be as I say,” I told him emphatically. “You must be brave and patient and never fear; and when your time comes, you will be a good Pharaoh and do great things for Kemet. I know it.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, eyes big and desperate in his search for reassurance.

  “I am sure,” I said with a flat certainty I indeed was far from feeling: for the evil that threatens me may yet consume him. “I, Nefer-Kheperu-Ra Akhenaten, Living Horus, Son of the Sun, decree it!”

  “Well,” he said with a sudden relieved sigh that told me my firmness had been accepted, “I’m glad of that.” His manner became suddenly grave and dignified, he rose from the throne and bowed low. “Now I must return to the North Palace, Your Majesty, if I may have your leave to depart.”

  “You may, little Brother,” I said with equal gravity. “Come to me again when you wish to talk.”

  “I will,” he promised solemnly, and added, with an innocent emphasis that told me much, “I like you.”

  “Thank you, Neb-Kheperu-Ra,” I said, formally using the name the Family has agreed he will take when he does come to the throne. “You are always welcome in my house.”

  “Good!” he said with a quick smile that lighted up his face. “Be of good cheer, Brother, and do not worry. All will come well for you.”

  “And for you too, little Tut,” I said, “and do you never doubt or forget it.”

  “I will try not,” he said, falling abruptly solemn again. “But at times it is not easy.”

  After he had gone the glow of his earnest and loving little being stayed with me for a while, a bright, even if troubled, note in my weary life. But I was deeply disturbed by the fears he revealed to me. Even its youngest member, apparently, is haunted by the ghosts of the House of Thebes.

  Later I reflected that he had not even mentioned Nefertiti. I wondered if this might not have been her deliberate design, to send him as a reminder of her presence that would work upon me and make me weaken toward her. But I did not weaken, for at that time I was still too gone in grief and resentment, and the things that had caused me to put her from me in the first place.

  But presently I began to think; and in these past few days I have found to my surprise, with a growing inward excitement, that I am beginning to dwell a little less upon the past and a little more upon the future. In some subtle way I cannot quite define, my heart and mind are coming to life again after their long, dark passage.

  And so today Anser-Wossett, with her never shaken loyalty to Nefertiti and her honest concern for me, opened th
e way. She was the key, as I know Nefertiti hoped she would be. The door is unlocked and I am ready to come forth.

  I do truly believe that this is hope I feel at last, O Father Aten, you who have sustained me in all my troubles. Together—and together with Nefertiti, too, who I now realize possesses a love for me that nothing can ever shatter, which revives in me my love for her—we will resume our rule of our dear Two Lands.

  I have given the order. All is ready. The guards are expecting her, they will let her in, we will go to the North Palace and from there, tomorrow, to the Window of Appearances to announce the resumption of our rule. It is now three hours to midnight. I have only to wait patiently, here on my throne where none will dare disturb me, and very soon I will see her again. And then, Father Aten, perhaps your son Akhenaten will find some little happiness in the world once more.

  With excitement and anticipation growing eagerly in my heart, I am told that Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, would see me. I send word that he is to be admitted. I shall not tell him our plans, but he is my old, dear friend and teacher, and his presence will entertain me for a little while I wait.

  I arrange myself upon the throne, put on my wig which I have not worn for days until my visit with Anser-Wossett this afternoon, straighten my linen shift, prepare to greet him with the smile of old friendship and affection. He appears in the doorway, face distraught, eyes filled with great agitation … and hope, which I now know I should never have allowed to bemuse me, dies.

  “Majesty!” he cries with a frantic urgency. “Flee, Majesty! Flee! They are coming to do awful things! You must flee, I beg of you! Flee! Do not hesitate, do not delay—flee!”

  “Who is coming?” I demand sharply, my voice succumbing to its damnable emotional croak. “Who is coming to my palace? Tell me.”

  “Horemheb, Ramesses, Hatsuret and their troops.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I do not know, Nefer-Kheperu-Ra,” he says, using my name with old familiarity, “but I know it bodes no good to you and Her Majesty. She has left the North Palace. They seem to know she is coming here—they are coming here. Please! Please, I beg of you as a father which I have almost been to you all these unhappy years—go! Please go! Immediately!”

  “Where can I go that they will not find me?” I ask him bitterly; and suddenly I reject it all, him, them, everything—except my dear wife who is riding to me swiftly through the night, her plan apparently exposed, her life in jeopardy as I now know mine is.

  A great calm and radiance settle on me, Father Aten, coming from you to your son Akhenaten. I know what I must do.

  “Her Majesty is indeed coming here,” I tell this old man who is almost a stranger to me now, so remote does he seem in his terror. “She is being very brave. I can be no less brave. I shall go to the gate and greet her. They will not dare harm us.”

  “They will, Majesty!” he cries in anguish as outside we hear the distant approaching sounds of many men and many horses. “They will! Son of the Sun, you must go!”

  “No,” I say quietly, “I will not go.”

  And I start toward the door, noting with disdain that Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, that great sage whom we have looked up to and revered all these years, is clinging desperately to my sleeve, weeping like a woman. He is but a poor thing, after all.

  I go armored in our love for one another, and for you, Father Aten.

  I am Nefer-Kheperu-Ra Akhenaten.

  She is Nefer-neferu-aten Nefertiti.

  And we will prevail.

  ***

  Amonhotep,

  Son of Hapu

  He tries to shake off my hand with a furious impatience, he hobbles ahead of me along the corridor as fast as he can. He is like one possessed—but of a weird otherworldly serenity I am unable to penetrate. They are coming to kill them both, and he will not listen to me while there still is time. He could flee—even now, with luck, they could manage to escape and flee together—and from some hidden place seek friends to rise and put down their enemies … but he will not flee, for he knows, as I know, that they no longer have any friends and their tragic story is at last played out.

  So I weep as I cling to him, seeking even now to hold him back. As we near the entrance he turns upon me with a sudden violent movement, eyes still remote but blinded briefly by a savage rage.

  “Let me go!” he snaps, yanking his sleeve finally from my grasp. “Get back!”

  Furiously he stares at me, helplessly I stare back. Outside the sound of approaching troops comes nearer.

  “Yes, Son of the Sun,” I murmur at last through my tears, “I will let you go.” He turns instantly and resumes his shuffling, stumbling run toward the great wooden doors where servants stand wide-eyed with terror, waiting to fling them open at his command.

  “Open!” he shouts with a terrible urgency. They obey, tumbling over one another in their fright. We look out upon a garish scene. A wild wind is blowing off the Nile, great torches hiss back the night. There is a jumble of horses, troops, men—and a single beautiful woman, standing straight and composed in her chariot as it pauses on one side of the courtyard to confront that of her half brother which has just drawn up on the other side.

  For a moment we are all frozen in one of those awful spells that last forever in memory and, perhaps, in time. Over Akhenaten’s shoulder I can see them staring, first Nefertiti and Horemheb at one another, then the two of them at Akhenaten—he looking from each to each and back again, revealing nothing in a face that now is as composed as hers, serene and unafraid.

  A breathless silence fills the world. The wind blows, the torches flare; only the restless shifting of the horses and the dry rustling of the palms keeps us in tenuous touch with reality. We are figures of stone, awaiting the word that will start us to life. It comes at last from him, in a voice that miraculously rings clear and commanding through the square.

  “Why do you come here, Cousin? What business have you with your King and Pharaoh at this strange hour?”

  Horemheb stares at him, he and Nefertiti at Horemheb. Finally Horemheb speaks, his face working with emotion but his voice filled with a terrible determination.

  “We have come to arrest Your Majesties and remove you forever from the rule of the Two Lands,” he says, and a great shuddering sigh goes up from the trembling soldiers, the terrified servants and the few late wanderers of the city who have been attracted by the unusual commotion.

  “You speak treason, Cousin,” Akhenaten says quietly, his face betraying no emotion other than a calm conviction that he will prevail. Abruptly his voice rises in sharp command: “Arrest him!”

  There is a stirring among the troops, an uneasy movement, the exchange of many awed and frightened glances—but they have had their orders and although most are simple peasant lads confronted by the awesome age-old mystery of their Pharaoh, they stand firm. Horemheb is their leader, and commands the world.

  “Arrest him!” Akhenaten shouts again, his voice now croaking with a furious anger that is frightening in its intensity … but they do not move.

  “ARREST HIM!” he shouts for the third time … and still they do not move.

  The silence returns. Our dreadful paralysis has enveloped us again. None stirs. A stillness as of death lies on us now.

  “Your Majesties,” Horemheb says at last, face still filled with emotion but voice implacable, “had best come quietly so that no one will be hurt”

  “No!” Nefertiti cries, her voice as implacable as his, ringing firm and fearless in the chilling wind. Calmly she takes the reins of her chariot from the trembling hands of her driver and turns to Akhenaten, standing rigid on the topmost step.

  “Husband,” she says, still in the same clear, untroubled voice, “come with me and let us leave this traitorous dog to eat his vomit as befits him. Come!”

  And she slaps the reins across the backs of her horses, who whinny and start forward.

  Instantly the world goes mad.

  “Stop her!” Horemheb shouts in a
terrible voice.

  “Let her through on pain of death and the eternal curse of Pharaoh through all time, forever and ever!” Akhenaten shouts in fury equally terrible.

  For the slightest of moments the world hangs suspended. Then the terrified but obedient soldiers tumble forward, her chariot is surrounded, the horses scream and rear high as someone stabs them and their entrails begin to spill upon the stones. Wild shouts mingle with the horses’ screams as the soldiers seek to strengthen one another’s resolve. The dust swirls up and hides the dreadful scene for several moments. When it is hurried away by the racing wind, the melee emerges again in all its awful excitement. At its center stands Horemheb, holding the reins of the dying horses. Straight and proud, eyes fierce, expression fearless and enraged, Nefertiti stands at the front of her chariot. Behind her stands Hatsuret, a glistening battle-ax raised high above his head.

  For what seems an eternity but can only be a moment she stays so in the wildly flickering light of the great bronze-shielded torches, beautiful, brave, indomitable and unconquerable.

  “Now!” Horemheb shouts. Hatsuret raises still higher the gleaming ax.

  So fast the eye is unable to follow, it flashes for a split second and comes down to cleave forever that perfect, timeless skull.

  A heavy, unbelieving groan comes from the stunned soldiers and the watching crowd, a wild animal scream from Akhenaten. Desperately I clutch his arm, with a strength I did not know my old bones could muster I drag him back inside before any can emerge from the blood-sick stupor that engulfs them. Frantically I shout at the servants, frantically they leap to slam shut and bolt the massive doors.

  “Majesty!” I cry. “You must flee! Oh, my dear son, I beg of you, please, please, please, come with me!”

  He is in a daze, he does not know where he is—but he obeys. Blindly he staggers away with me down the corridor. At our backs we hear the first heavy crash of the battering rams.

  Somehow I hurry him, half falling, half stumbling, leaning on me for support I am almost afraid I cannot give, I am so desperate and frightened and my heart hurts so as I struggle to breathe, down the seemingly endless corridors to the private entrance at the back. Miraculously Horemheb has not thought of this: perhaps he could not imagine her death would not deliver the Good God helpless in his hands. Only Akenaten’s troops are on guard, and they have as yet had no word of what has transpired in front.