by Allen Drury
I stand for a moment irresolute, and in that moment he comes back to me.
“Chariot,” he croaks. “Chariot!”
“Yes!” I cry, and give the command. Sped by my haste and agitation, the guards spring to obey. In a moment a chariot with two horses stands before us. In the next, the back gates have been swung open. With a strange, startling agility, calling upon who knows what reserves of strength and terror, he leaps up as I have not seen him do since he was a child and grasps the reins tightly in his long, thin hands.
“Majesty—” I cry, and start to clamber up with him. But savagely he pushes me back—savagely, but, I think, quite impersonally, for I know he hardly realizes I am there.
“No!” he cries. “I go!”
And lashes the horses, who leap forward, and vanishes in the night of the still sleeping, unsuspecting city.
I know where he is going in his blind grief and desperation and I know that they will find him there.
I bow my head and weep bitterly for Nefer-Kheperu-Ra Akhenaten, tenth King and Pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty to rule over the land of Kemet, whose living body I know I shall never look upon again.…
Some time later—some little time, though to me in my utmost agony of soul it has seemed very long indeed—I hear the crash of the great doors going down, a swirl of soldiers jangling through the halls. Ever nearer comes the voice of Horemheb. I sit upon the ground and draw my robe over my head and wait humbly for his coming: for I know that for me as well he means Death.
But amazingly it does not come. I am aware of a sudden quiet, I am conscious that he is standing over me. Slowly I draw my robe away and look up with tear-filled eyes into his strained and ravaged face.
For a long time our eyes hold in silence. Then at last he reaches down and gently draws the robe back over my head. I prepare myself instantly for the end of life. But again he astounds me.
“Do not feel too badly, old friend,” he says softly, “and do not think I will blame you for what you have done this night. You have done what you believed you had to do”—he pauses and his voice grows infinitely sad, with a depth of feeling I had not known was in him, my bright and clever “Kaires” who came to us so long ago—“and so, I think, have we.”
With an abrupt harshness he cries, “Bring my horse! I go alone to the Northern Tombs!” There is an obedient jumble of response—and he is gone.
I draw my robe tighter over my head, I lock my hands around my knees, I rock back and forth in desolation for our poor lost Akhenaten and our beautiful Nefertiti.
***
Akhenaten
(life, health, prosperity!)
Far below me the city sleeps. Here where I have come so often, I rest in you, my Father Aten. You are my protector, my friend; you open for me the peaceful ways. For your son Akhenaten you will set all things right and make the world to sing again. You will restore to me my beloved wife, who has not died, and my dearest brother, who has not died, and together we will rule in happiness and love for all our people, forever and ever, for millions and millions of years.
It seems to me that somewhere, but a little while ago, there was horror in the night. I cannot remember exactly what it was, I remember light and voices shouting, there seems to be a great terror—and then it eludes me. I cannot understand, I no longer remember, I forget and with a smile of infinite peace I think again upon your wonderful and loving grace to me, my Father Aten.
You know, my Father Aten, how long and faithfully I have loved you, and how earnestly I have sought to make my people understand your joyous kindness to the world. I have labored diligently in all things so that they might know how you have made the world to be a beautiful and happy place, and how you love all men and keep them safe, O Sole God who rules the universe. I have tried to make them see that they must not be afraid of other gods, that they must not fear the powers of magic, of evil and of darkness—that they must love only you, who are all things good and kind, in whose holy light all men, women, birds, animals, living things are blessed and sheltered and made whole.
This I have tried to do, Father Aten—only you know how hard I have tried. I think I may sometimes have made mistakes, for though I am a god I am also human; but they have been mistakes grown of loving you, and not from evil in my heart. I know my people have not understood me always, and perhaps I have not understood them as much as I would wish; but I have tried to serve them, and to save them, as best I could with the benison of your loving guidance. For you I married my daughters, that I might have sons to carry on my line and spread your gospel to all the lands and oceans, not only of Kemet but far beyond our borders, for all men need your loving help. For you I put aside my dear wife Nefertiti for a time and took to my side my dear brother Smenkhkara, who represented to me all that was happy and hopeful in my own youth that was so sadly ended when I fell ill: in his love I thought I might find the strength to help me strengthen you. For you I destroyed Amon and the other gods, so that nothing would stand in the way of your dominance of the world.
I have wanted only love, for you, for myself, for everyone. Dimly I seem to remember that there was opposition—bitterness—I have a vague feeling that some things were unhappy and did not go right for me—I try to remember, but my mind is tired tonight, Father Aten, and I cannot. Nor do I wish to or need to, protected as I am by your love, resting in peace within your loving arms.
It may be all has not gone as I would have wished, it may be I have been wrong about some things. But I have loved you, Father Aten, and I have loved my kingdom and its people, and for them I have sought only happy things. I have tried, Father Aten—I have tried: only you know how hard your son Akhenaten has tried.…
Far below I see the tiny spark of a flickering torch, twisting erratically in the wind. I thought the wind might be cold up here, for somehow I seem to have come without my robe, clad only in my linen shift; but I am warm and comfortable in the glow of your love, and I do not feel it. Somehow all the world seems bright and filled with happiness tonight, and all bad things are gone.…
I believe it is a single horseman who comes: the torch rocks as in the hand of one who rides a galloping steed. He has started up the long stone ramp that leads here to the Northern Tombs. His progress slows as his mount takes the steep incline. But he is coming, Father Aten, and to greet him I believe that I will sing to him once more my Hymn that I wrote to you, which I have sung so often to sustain me through all our years together. I do not know who he is who comes: but I think that he can only be moved, as all men are moved, by the loving beauty of what I sing to you.
I rise to my feet—I seem to have been lying prostrate on the ground, though I cannot remember why—and I move to the edge of the terrace that fronts the tombs. I spread my arms wide to embrace my city, my beloved kingdom and the glorious shining world. It is filled for me tonight with a marvelous all-conquering peace in the beauty of your love, and I sing to you:
“Thou arisest fair in the horizon of Heaven, O Living Aten, Beginner of Life. When thou dawnest in the East, thou fillest every land with thy beauty. Thou art indeed comely, great, radiant and high over every land. Thy rays embrace the lands to the full extent of all that thou hast made, for thou art Ra and thou attainest their limits and subdueth them for thy beloved son, Akhenaten. Thou art remote yet thy rays are upon the earth. Thou art in the sight of men, yet thy ways are not known.
“When thou settest in the Western horizon, the earth is in darkness after the manner of death. Men spend the night indoors with the head covered, the eye not seeing its fellow. Their possessions might be stolen, even when under their heads, and they would be unaware of it. Every lion comes forth from its lair and all snakes bite. Darkness is the only light, and the earth is silent when their Creator rests in his habitation.
“The earth brightens when thou arisest in the Eastern horizon and shinest forth as Aten in the daytime. Thou drivest away the night when thou givest forth thy beams. The Two Lands are in festival. They awake and st
and upon their feet for thou hast raised them up. They wash their limbs, they put on raiment and raise their arms in adoration at thy appearance. The entire earth performs its labors. All cattle are at peace in their pastures. The trees and herbage grow green. The birds fly from their nests, their wings raised in praise of thy spirit. All animals gambol on their feet, all the winged creation live when thou hast risen for them. The boats sail upstream, and likewise downstream. All ways open at thy dawning. The fish in the river leap in thy presence. Thy rays are in the midst of the sea.
“Thou it is who causest women to conceive and maketh seed into man, who giveth life to the child in the womb of its mother, who comforteth him so that he cries not therein, nurse that thou art, even in the womb, who giveth breath to quicken all that he hath made. When the child comes forth from the body on the day of his birth, then thou openest his mouth completely and thou furnisheth his sustenance. When the chick in the egg chirps within the shell, thou givest him the breath within it to sustain him. Thou createst for him his proper term within the egg, so that he shall break it and come forth from it to testify to his completion as he runs about on his two feet when he emerges.
“How manifold are thy works! They are hidden from the sight of men, O Sole God, like unto whom there is no other! Thou didst fashion the earth according to thy desire when thou wast alone—all men, all cattle great and small, all that are upon the earth that run upon their feet or rise up on high, flying with their wings. And the lands of Syria and Kush and Kemet—thou appointest every man to his place and satisfieth his needs. Everyone receives his sustenance and his days are numbered. Their tongues are diverse in speech and their qualities likewise, and their color is differentiated for thou has distinguished the nations.
“Thou makest the waters under the earth and thou bringest them forth as the Nile at thy pleasure to sustain the people of Kemet even as thou hast made them live for thee, O Divine Lord of them all, toiling for them, the Lord of every land, shining forth for them, the Aten Disk of the daytime, great in majesty!
“All distant foreign lands also, thou createst their life. Thou hast placed a Nile in heaven to come forth for them and make a flood upon the mountains like the sea in order to water the fields of their villages. How excellent are thy plans, O Lord of Eternity!—a Nile in the sky is thy gift to the foreigners and to the beasts of their lands; but the true Nile flows from under the earth for Kemet.
“Thy beams nourish every field and when thou shinest they live and grow for thee. Thou makest the seasons in order to sustain all that thou hast made, the winter to cool them, the summer heat that they may taste of thy quality. Thou hast made heaven afar off that thou mayest behold all that thou hast made when thou wast alone, appearing in thine aspect of the Living Aten, rising and shining forth. Thou makest millions of forms out of thyself, towns, villages, fields, roads, the river. All eyes behold thee before them, for thou art the Aten of the daytime, above all that thou hast created.
“Thou are in my heart, and there is none that knoweth thee save thy son, Akhenaten. Thou hast made him wise in thy plans and thy power!”
Triumphantly I conclude, my voice loud and clear in the silent night, ringing over the city, the Nile, Kemet, the world; and as I do, the horseman reaches the edge of the terrace, dismounts and walks slowly toward me. I see that it is my cousin Horemheb and that he is carrying a battle-ax … and suddenly I remember. I know.
Great terror for a second fills my heart, but then you come to me and place your hand tenderly upon my shoulder and strengthen me, O Father Aten, and all is peaceful and serene again with me. You are like unto a great light, a Nile of Niles that floods my being.
I do not fear him. He will not harm me.
I am the Living Horus and I stand armored in your love.
“Ah, yes, Cousin,” I say quietly as he advances. “Somehow I knew that you would come for me.”
***
Horemheb
From afar I hear his high, wild keening, whipped to me on the wind as my horse struggles up the long incline to the Northern Tombs. Dimly above me in the blustering night I see his gaunt, ungainly, white-clad figure, arms outstretched as if to bless the world with the obscene mouthings of his empty Aten.
To him his words may make sense. To me they mean nothing. Only the measured cadence tells me what he thinks he is chanting. From his mouth there issues only gibberish.
Upon his face as I approach there shines a light unearthly: it frightens me. He is in some other world, gone from us for good, leaving us at last forever, poor, sad, pathetic Akhenaten. I am filled with horror of what I have done and still must do: yet I tell myself that it has to be, for Kemet, for the Dynasty, and for him.
He looks to be at peace at last. It is peace that I am here to bring him.
Suddenly lucidity returns and he says the only intelligible words that I have heard:
“Ah, yes, Cousin. Somehow I knew that you would come for me.”
There is in his voice such a calm acceptance, in his eyes such a look of humble yet tranquil submission, as of a wounded animal awaiting with pain yet a marvelous serenity the blow it knows will end its world forever, that almost it turns my legs to water.
It brings to my heart such terror and such grief for what I must do that almost I turn and run screaming from the necessary horrors of this dreadful night.
Almost it stays my hand.
Almost …
***
Tiye
I sit in the window of the little palace he built for me and look my last upon the Nile, my beloved Two Lands and all the lovely world that once was so kind and generous to me. I have done my duty and I can live no more.
An hour ago they came to me, my brother and Horemheb, faces ravaged, eyes filled with tears, yet calm with the calmness of men who have accomplished what they believed they must.
“It is finished,” Aye says, his voice shaking with emotion, yet firm. “Both are dead. All is over.”
Though I had given the word, I yet cry out, a terrible shrieking wail that echoes down the corridors.
My heart dies within me.
Two sons I have sacrificed to Kemet and all my life of care and devotion for the Two Lands has ended in horror and ruination. Perhaps, as they tell me, it has ended in a new birth for Kemet, a great change that will be for the better after all these sad past years.
So do they believe. So would I like to believe. So, perhaps, I can make myself believe.
But however it has ended, it has ended for me.
After I have wept for a time, my body torn with such savage sobs that they look at me with fright, I tell them that I wish to be buried in the Royal Wadi beside my sons and Nefertiti. Both pledge me this, and I do not think they will betray me.
Then I tell them I wish to be alone for a while, and dismiss them. Weeping also, but strong in the certainty that what we have done must be right, they leave me.
I sit alone at my window and look my last upon all the lovely things that make life so happy on this earth for those blessed with the good fortune to enjoy them.
I have not been so blessed in many years.
The poison gleams beside me in the glass; I am taking it with wine so that I will not be aware when it goes down.
Presently I shall cease my looking, and go to sleep.
***
Aye
My mind staggers with horror, my hands reek with blood: I think they shall never be cleansed again.
Yet what could we do, for the Two Lands’ sake?
If only we had not … if only he had not … if only … but we did.
I must think no longer thus. I shall weep forever for my beautiful daughter and lost unhappy Akhenaten, for my sister and for us all. But a new day has come for Kemet.
Tutankhaten is King.
I must put away the past that kills my heart and help my frightened little nephew restore the Two Lands to ma’at and their ancient glory.
***
Tutankhaten
(life, health, prosperity!)
I weep so long and so sadly for my mother, my brother and my beautiful cousin. They were all so kind to me.
Who will be kind to me now?
Beside me Ankhesenpaaten, who will be my Queen, weeps softly too.
We are alone in all this world.
Though but a child, I am King and Pharaoh. But whom can I trust?
What will happen to us, now that the grownups tell me I must rule this sad land of Kemet?
***
Book III
Life of a God
1358 B.C.
***
Hatsuret
He is a pliant lad. If he continues as we desire, he and Amon will enjoy many long years together.
***
Tutankhamon
(life, health, prosperity!)
Today is the day we must leave the city of my brother and return to Thebes.
All about me is bustle, confusion, last-minute packing and preparation, the final hours of readiness in which everyone rushes about, worries, checks to make sure all is right, hopes to forget nothing, tries to remember everything. All over the city I can hear these sounds as Ankhesenpaaten and I stand at the window and stare for the last time at the gleaming white rooftops, the golden-spired temples, the miles of once-crowded streets, gardens, parks, alleyways that he called into life the year I was born and which, on this day thirteen years later, must now begin to die.
On the river the great barges wait, filled to overflowing with household goods, gold, jewels, the wealth of what was once his capital and for these past four years has been a favorite one of mine. A vast flotilla jams the Nile from the southern boundary to the north: All the officers of the Court, the nobility, the civil servants, their families, servants and slaves are packed and ready to leave. We sail at noon, my gold-painted barge in the lead, followed immediately by that of my uncle Aye and then by my cousin Horemheb. All the rest will jostle into place and the long journey upstream will begin amid the hectic shouts of pilots and oarsmen, the heavy rhythmic slap of paddles on water, the snapping sounds of sails as Shu the wind god bellies them out, the excited shouts of those who look forward—and perhaps, underneath, the quiet sobbing of those who look back … desperately muffled, of course, because this is supposed to be a happy day and no one is supposed to feel regret.
