by Allen Drury
The first part of the day was ridiculous—empty and horrid, as far as we were concerned. The second was love, in whose arms we have rested ever since, and upon whose endless kindness and unshakable loyalty we still hope to base our rule.
I was seated on the ancient throne of coronation, so old that its origins are lost in time. Before me the masked priests danced and chanted in the bright sunshine, somehow no longer chill but soft and warm with the magic of love. The khepresh was removed, the Double Crown was placed upon my head. Priests masked as the spirits of the Nile twined the lily and the papyrus, representing the Two Lands, around a pillar to symbolize their union. I then rose and made my ceremonial run around a square marked out upon the sand: this ancient rite represented the way my distant ancestors millennia ago ran around the boundaries of our first capital of Memphis to symbolize their assumption of rule.
There was more chanting, long and solemn, to which the vast crowd listened respectfully. Finally I returned to the throne, stepped forward and lifted my arms for silence. I was aware of consternation around me, sudden startled looks from my uncle Aye and Horemheb, Hatsuret’s uneasy turnings: this was not part of tradition. Akhenaten inaugurated it, this revolutionary direct contact with the people: they thought they had destroyed it, with him. I could see memory in their eyes, fear of what I might say, and I knew I must banish it at once. Indeed, I never intended else.
“My dearly beloved people of Kemet!” I cried, and my fluting child’s voice no doubt sounded thin and reedy in the utter silence; but they loved me for it, and their love came up to me in waves.
“Much of sadness and of ill has fallen upon us in recent years. Many were to blame”—for I would not blame him, ever, who strove for love and died for it, though I could sense the silent protests around me because I did not—“and all must now work together, to repair what has been done and make the Two Lands whole again. I will restore ma’at, I will bring back happiness. All will be again in Kemet as it was before. You and I, my dear people, together with our dear Queen, Ankhesenpaaten, will work to restore our beloved land.
“We will help one another, you and I! We will make all come right again for Kemet! Great will be her glory hereafter, forever and ever, for millions of years!
“I, Neb-Kheperu-Ra”—for a split second I hesitated, for the new name did not yet come easily to my tongue: then I decided it best to be clever and appear to accept—“Tutankhamon”—a joyful roar broke the silence to the very edge of the Nile, for they have never loved my brother’s Sole God of love, so I repeated it slowly—“I, Neb-Kheperu-Ra Tutankhamon, do so promise it!”
And turned back to resume my seat for the ceremonial games, to find my uncle, Horemheb and Hatsuret nodding and beaming with great relief and approval. They need not have worried: it was not at that moment I would choose to defy them, a child of nine only. How on earth could I?
There followed a procession through Thebes that lasted all afternoon, at which those who had been unable to crowd around the temple were able to shout to me and Ankhesenpaaten, borne high in our gold-painted baldachins, their exited, happy greetings. We then crossed the river to Malkata and attended the traditional ceremonial banquet for an hour or so, after which we were sent off to bed in charge of Ramesses and his wife Sitra, who are kindly people if a little dull.
It was high time for us to leave, in fact, because by then nearly all the top officials of the Court, including even Horemheb (though not my uncle Aye), were becoming very drunk, and other things were apparently soon to happen. On such occasions in Kemet—including the banquets that traditionally follow funerals, and particularly at the great Festival of Opet, which has now been revived and lasts for two weeks while Amon is brought from Karnak to visit his temple at Luxor—the ladies wear cones of perfumed wax atop their wigs. As the wax melts, the perfumes run down over their bodies. This combines with a great deal of wine that everyone drinks, and presently things occur that are rather far from the stately, dignified life recorded on the walls of our tombs and temples. Ankhesenpaaten and I soon learned, in fact, that such occasions often conclude with most of the guests rutting like animals in a communal orgy which disgusts us so that we have banned it from our own banquets. But it goes on all over Kemet, all the time. Next day, of course, everyone is dignified again and serene as a temple painting, if a little hollow-eyed.
We went to bed with the howls of our own guests—and from across the river the howls of the common citizens of Thebes, who always pour into the streets in a drunken mass on the slightest pretext to mimic their betters in every naked particular—ringing in our ears. With a wryness that came to me even at the age of nine, I reflected that the coronation of the King and Pharaoh Tutankhamon was indeed being suitably celebrated by his countrymen. When we said good night before being led to our respective chambers, Ankhesenpaaten and I agreed that this would never happen in our own palaces again. This is one thing, in spite of some grumbling by those who consider us strait-laced, that we have been able to achieve.
After that I lingered for a few weeks in Thebes, while Aye and Horemheb gave orders to Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, and to Tuthmose, our chief sculptor, to start the rebuilding and redecorating of all the temples. I then made a triumphal coronation progress to Memphis, to Heliopolis, Hermonthis, and finally back to Hermopolis, across the river from Akhet-Aten; and so from there back to this city that today we abandon. Here I have had one of my principal seats of government, though I have spent much time, too, in Memphis and in Thebes. Thebes in particular I like, because that is where I first became aware of life, in the Palace of Malkata; and now that we are being forced to leave this city that holds so many unhappy memories—and yet, for me and Ankhesenpaaten, as children growing up mostly in the palace of Nefertiti while my mother the Great Wife spent much of her time in Thebes, many happy memories, too—it is to Thebes that I will go. I told my uncle recently that I wished to add to my titles the words “Ruler of Southern ‘No,’” which means Thebes; and there was happy agreement from all, because they thought it meant I wanted to be near Amon, whom I appear to love so much. Actually I want to reoccupy Malkata, which of all my palaces, save the North Palace here which we must now abandon, I like the best.
Six months after returning here, Ankhesenpaaten and I were married in a lengthy ceremony, its first rites held in the House of the Aten, its second half held in the small temple of Amon adjoining what used to be my mother’s palace, now standing empty beside the Nile. Our desire to give the Aten such renewed prominence of course greatly disturbed Horemheb and Hatsuret, but to their surprise it was Aye who said firmly it should be so. It was he, in fact, who encouraged us to request it in the first place.
“We do not wish to destroy the Aten altogether,” he said to Horemheb when the two of them argued it out in my presence.
“Why not?” my cousin demanded bluntly.
“Because Aten is still a sacred aspect of Ra,” Aye replied with equal bluntness. “And while we have restored Ra’s other aspects, and given back their power to Amon and the other gods, we cannot simply pretend the Aten does not exist. The key to change in Kemet, my son, is ‘gradual’—gradual. Even though he (Aye does not name my brother if he can possibly avoid it. He does not go so far as to call him “the Heretic” or “the Criminal,” as Horemheb and many others do, but he will not say his name) is gone, still for a time the Aten was supreme. The god can only be reduced gradually to a lesser role.”
“Well, see that he is!” Horemheb said tersely, at which my uncle came as close to open anger as I have ever seen him display with my powerful cousin, whom I think he even then was beginning to fear.
“You do not order the Regent to do anything!” he snapped. “I shall proceed in moderation and sense, as I have done all things.”
“Including—” Horemheb began sarcastically, but his father cut him off with a terrible fierceness.
“Do not raise old ghosts with me! There is guilt enough for all and blood enough for all! Be satisfied with you
r portion, and be still!”
For quite a long time Horemheb stared at him, apparently unabashed, while I, frightened of their anger, almost hesitated to breathe. But Horemheb apparently was more intimidated than he showed, for presently he turned away with a sullen “Let us not do too much honor to the Aten, then!”
To which my uncle replied, more calmly, “We will not, you may rest assured of that. But neither will we invite too much comment and concern by being as violent toward the Aten as he was toward Amon and the others. It is balance Kemet desperately needs now. Balance!”
Horemheb made no reply as he departed, and my uncle turned back to me, still breathing a little hard, to say quietly, “Son of the Sun, do not be alarmed by these arguments between your cousin and me. Though a mature man, he is still too rash and impatient in some respects. I know in his heart he sees my wisdom, as I hope you do too. Do you not agree with what I say?”
So dutifully I said (because it conformed so well to my own desires, in any case), “Yes, Uncle. Your words make sense to me.”
And thus we had our wedding, blessed at least in part by the Aten, as we wished; and thus began the small defiance—never daring very much, for we are still so young and our hold on the people and on the army is not yet strong enough—which has allowed us to keep our hearts at rest and feel that we are being true to those who watch us from the after-world, expecting us to keep faith with them. It is for this reason also that, until this day, I have continued to use both my names, signing myself sometimes “Tutankhamon” and sometimes “Tutankhaten,” so that both appear on my official documents.
Now I have been told that as of this day this will no longer be permitted: from now on all must be “Tutankhamon.” It will also be “Ankhesenamon” instead of Ankhesenpaaten. But they cannot change what we call ourselves in our hearts, or what we call one another in the privacy of our chambers. Between ourselves, at least, we will continue to do what we feel to be our duty.
On this day also, before we depart, I must set my seal—“Tutankhamon”—to the text of the “restoration stela” that Horemheb has drawn up for me. He proposes to have it inscribed on two tablets, one in the temple of Karnak and the other in the temple of Luxor to provide, as he says, “a suitable celebration of your return to Thebes.” In them he wishes me to describe for eternity how I have restored to Amon and all the others their rights, prerogatives and privileges. He also wishes me to condemn my brother. This time my uncle and even my friend and cousin Nahkt-Min are agreed. I do not wish to do it, but these are the words I must endorse for them:
“Now when His Majesty [myself] appeared as King, the temples from one end of the land to the other had fallen into ruin; their shrines were desolate and had become wildernesses overgrown with weeds; their sanctuaries were as though they had never been; their precincts were trodden paths. The land was in confusion, for the gods had forsaken this land. If an army was sent to Asia to widen the frontiers of Kemet, it met with no success. If one prayed to a god to ask things of him, he did not come. If one supplicated a goddess, likewise she did not come either. Their hearts were enfeebled because what had been made was destroyed.”
I know that in large measure this is true yet I do not like the tone of criticism of my brother, who was kind to me—he was kind to me. He may have done bad things to Amon and the other gods, but did they not do bad things to him? He did not turn upon them until very late, when he felt he could do no other. Is he to be blamed to eternity for that?
Apparently he is, for when I showed signs of demurring (this was handed to me unexpectedly after dinner last night when I was of course entirely unprepared for it), I was threatened that if I did not sign we would not be allowed to return to Thebes, and there would be public disgrace for me. I am still too young, as I say, to have full power, so I decided to dissemble. I said that, while I regretted what they seemed to regard as the necessity to attack a Good God (they winced at that title, as I desired they should) who could do them no further harm, still I could see that Amon perhaps needed to be appeased, now that they had made him so strong again. They did not like this reminder very much, but since I was conceding they could say no more about it. So with silent apologies to my brother I agreed to the rest of it as well.
I related (in Horemheb’s words—he, being a scribe, is very good at words, of course) how I was speaking from the domain of Tuthmose I (life, health, prosperity!) at Akhet-Aten (where my brother had built our distinguished ancestor a small honorary temple). I said I must congratulate myself on what I had accomplished for Amon and the other gods so far, and stated my determination to put an end to evil and cause the ruined temples to flower once more as “monuments of eternity.” I also promised to build Amon “an august image of pure gold” inlaid with lapis lazuli and other precious stones, greater than he had ever received—it would take thirteen stretchers to carry it, in fact, which I reflected silently ought to be enough to make Hatsuret dance up and down the obelisk of Hatshepsut (life, health, prosperity!) in sheer glee. I also related how I had “gathered in priests and prophets, children of the notables of their towns, each the son of an eminent man whose name is known,” to form the revived priesthood of Amon (all of them carefully selected by Aye and Horemheb, of course, even though officially appointed by me) and told how I had endowed the temple at Karnak with treasures and filled its warehouses with male and female slaves to wait upon them.
I also described how I intended to rebuild Amon’s barges with cedar-wood of the finest quality and gild them with gold so that they might glitter upon the river as of old, and provide for them male and female workers and singers to assist them in their task—all this for the delight of all the gods and goddesses, who loved me and were filled with delight by my care for them (as indeed they should be, for it is all being handed back to them on a golden platter).
For this, I concluded, the gods had already repaid me a hundredfold, particularly kindly old Amon, who now “loves better than ever his son Neb-Kheperu-Ra, Lord of Karnak, Tutankhamon, him who satisfies all the gods.”
To this I affixed my seal—“Tutankhamon”—but not before I asked my cousin Horemheb, “Is this how you would achieve balance between Amon and Aten, Cousin? To me it seems you would put Amon again on top of the world.”
“It is not so, Son of the Sun,” he said, rather more vehemently than I think he intended. “It is simply a matter of redressing the wrongs that have been done him.”
“Well, be sure you do not lift him too high,” I said, “for he has been known to cast down even Pharaohs whom he does not like.”
He gave me a startled look, flushed and growled, “Well, it will be done correctly. Do not worry, Majesty. He will not cast you down, for he loves you—as you,” he added, suddenly peering at me, sharp and shrewd, “love him. Is it not so, Son of the Sun?”
“It is so, Cousin,” I said calmly, “with all my heart. Does not everything you require me to do give proof of it?”
“I require of you nothing you do not grant willingly out of your deep love for the god!” he said. “Is that not also true, Son of the Sun?”
I saw from his expression, and my uncle’s that it had better be, so I laughed and said, “Certainly, Cousin, certainly! I would not have it otherwise. Never would I have it otherwise!”
“I hope not,” he said, while at his shoulder my uncle looked as intent as he, “for to do so would only bring new sorrows upon the Two Lands. And that we all wish to avoid, do we not?”
“You have the proof of it,” I said cheerfully. “My seal is affixed to your writing. You hold it in your hand. Certainly even for one as suspicious as you, Cousin, that should be sufficient.”
“He is not suspicious,” my uncle said gravely, seeking to turn aside the contest he sensed beneath our words. “He is simply careful of the kingdom.”
“And I am not?” I demanded, suddenly stern, drawing myself up to my full height, which of course is not yet full-grown: but impressive enough, I guess, for they both stepped back
a little as though from a physical impact, at my regal presence. “Do you dare tell me I am not?”
“No, Majesty,” Aye said hastily; and, “No, Son of the Sun,” echoed Horemheb with equal haste. And, “Very well, then,” said I. “Take your paper and have your stelae carved. I, Neb-Kheperu-Ra Tutankhamon, have agreed to it, so let no more be said!”
“Yes, Majesty,” they said as one; bowed low; and backed out while I still stood stern and imperious before them. Behind me I heard a giggle: Ankhesenpaaten had been peeking through a slit in the curtain that conceals my private passageway to the throne.
“You have them scared,” she said, coming out and taking my hand in hers.
“Not really,” I said. “I am scared of them, and so should you be, until we are powerful enough to bend them to our rule.”
“Yes,” she agreed, suddenly somber, for we agree in all things, and particularly this. “The time is not yet.”
“Not yet,” I said, “but it will come.”
“Yes,” she said softly, kissing me as she often does, for we have found great happiness and are very close now that I am old enough, “it will come.” Her eyes looked suddenly fierce. “I swear it by the blood of my mother and my father!”
“I swear it by the blood of my brother and my cousin!” I said with equal fierceness: and then we clung to one another very tightly for a very long time, for in reality we are still children and today we are being forced to leave our favorite city under the command of others, and we are, in truth, unable to do the slightest thing about it.
But the time will come, it is simply a matter of getting through these next few years without antagonizing them too much or revealing to them too clearly what our real thoughts are. For the present, I intend to do one more thing, using the “restoration stela” as my excuse, which I think I can do in the guise of maintaining that “balance” my uncle talks about. I will tell them about this when we get to Thebes. If they protest too much I shall abandon it—for now. If they do not I shall go ahead, regarding it as one more small step on the long road we must go to return Kemet to the only balance that can truly restore her glory, the balance of love.
