by Allen Drury
Now the trumpets are blowing, there is bustle in the corridors. They are coming to get us. It is time to say good-by to Akhet-Aten.
We stand together for a last moment at the window, arms about each other’s waists, eyes suddenly filled with tears as we look our last upon the ghost city to which we will never, in all probability, return. They are with us achingly now, our own special ghosts. One shuffles awkwardly down the hall. One gives us a steady glance from serenely beautiful eyes. One, older and harried by her cares for Kemet, looks at us absent-mindedly yet with love as she vanishes from us down an empty street.
We have not left you, dear ghosts.
By us you will be remembered and revenged.
I, Neb-Kheperu-Ra Tutankhaten, so decree it.
***
Amonemhet
You will remember me, Amon-em-het the peasant who lives beside the Nile and watches the grand ones pass up and down on their way to death and disaster? Well, I am still here, a little older now: and lots of them are not. So I guess I can’t complain, even though life has never been easy for us here in the village, and I have just about given up hope that it ever will be.
Tonight the village is being greatly honored, so we are told, because the procession of the new Good God, our boy-King Tutankhamon, has graciously decided to tie up along our shores on its way to Thebes. What this “honor” means in fact is that hundreds of oarsmen, priests, slaves and servants will soon swarm ashore to chase our women and children and buy up every bit of food we have—or steal it, if they can’t buy it.
When I first heard they were coming—horsemen rode ahead to spread the word, followed by the sound of many trumpets on the river, far off—I ordered my wife and our six children (yes, we keep at it, though it means more mouths to feed—but also, you see, more hands to feed my wife and me when our mouths grow toothless again, as theirs first were) to take away our precious little hoard of grain, our two cattle, our two donkeys, even our dog and the cat—and hide them several miles from here in a secret cave we know at the place where the Black Land ends like a knife edge and the Red Land begins. I told them to remain there, for evil visitors sometimes want more than food, and my wife is still comely and we have three girls, and poor peasants have little appeal from the whims of nobles, thugs and city men.
I then left our hut wide open, the rough stone table and benches where we eat and the round stone where we grind the grain left in place, our sleeping pallets stacked in one corner of the room, our earthen pots and pans in another. I hoped this would discourage any would-be evildoer off the boats who might happen to look in, and with a silent prayer to Amon that all would be well with my family and our house, I went forth into the village to learn what I could learn.
The thing I learned, to my pleased surprise, was that this visit was different from the last such one we had, when the Good God’s father, Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity, and may his memory be blessed forever, good father to us that he was!) decided to tie up here many years ago on his way to Memphis. That time it did go just as I said. I was but a boy at the time, and even I was not safe from drunken strangers. The village was stripped of everything we had, there were screams and scuffles in the bushes, many of us children learned things that night we had not known before. The great ones passed through like a plague of locusts and we cursed their memory (except for the Good God, who remained on his golden barge and could not have known what went on) for many years thereafter. It was this that made us all rush our goods and families away at sundown when we heard the new Pharaoh was coming.
And for a little while, as I entered the market square and greeted my friends with worried glances—all of us standing about uncertainly, trembling and fearful of what might happen as the noisy visitors approached—it seemed the old pattern would be repeated. And it seemed that it would be approved by Pharaoh and by Amon himself, for it was one who announced himself as Amon’s High Priest who strode first into the square, stabbed the pole of his flaring torch into the sand with a scornful authority, and cried out:
“Draw near and give up your goods for the comfort and well-being of Pharaoh, who blesses your humble village with his sacred presence this night! And provide you also those who will give us comfort! So say I, Hatsuret, His Majesty’s High Priest in the most sacred temple of Amon at Karnak!”
At first none of us said anything, being too afraid to move.
“Well?” he cried out again, his voice becoming furious and demanding. “Well, well? Do not stand there like stones, but do as I say! Move!”
And, turning, he gestured imperiously to the several hundred men, some of them already swaying drunkenly, who stood behind him, many armed with clubs or spears. Slowly at first, but gaining courage from one another and from his fearsome presence, they began to stumble toward us, weapons raised.
Desperately we looked about, not knowing what to do or where to turn. I found myself crying out in my heart with a frantic anguish, “Somebody do something!” And abruptly, not knowing what impulse pushed me or where the courage came from, I found that I was.
“Sir!” I cried, my voice shaky but determined, stepping forward while my friends gathered behind me in a tight, protective group. “Great Sir, I beg of you, we are but humble peasants here. We have only the goods you see on our backs. We have little for the comfort of Pharaoh, but he is of course welcome to what we have, it is our greatest honor to give it to him. Take it, please, Great Sir, but spare us, his loyal subjects, from the wrath you show, for we have done nothing to deserve it!”
A murmur of agreement came from my friends behind, an angry jumble of impatience from the mob in front.
The High Priest tore his torch from the sand and jabbed it in again with a mighty force. As if observing from some other world, where I expected very soon to be, I noted that he had a long black beard, quite unlike most of us in Kemet, who are clean-shaven. I also saw that it was plaited with gold thread, which made me realize that Amon must now be very powerful again indeed. We had heard this in the village, but now we saw it.
“Scum!” he shouted. “Scum and double scum! Give us your goods at once and provide us other comforts, or you will not look long upon your village because it will no longer be here! And you will not be here to see even its ruins!”
And he strode forward suddenly and grasped me around the throat with his hairy, powerful hands, forcing me to my knees, my head back, my breath stopping, my throat trying helplessly to gag, my eyes beginning to bulge from my head. All began to swirl and swim, a blackness was creeping fast upon me—and suddenly there was a single high pitched angry shout, the High Priest threw me to the ground and leaped back, a great silence descended on all the world.
Two of my dear, brave friends placed their trembling hands beneath my arms and raised me up. Slowly the world came back into shape. Ours was the only movement, the only sound my deep, sobbing gasps for breath. All else was frozen.
Behind the mob, which now had turned in fear to witness him, there stood a youth of perhaps twelve or thirteen, naked to the waist. He too carried a long torch, almost twice as tall as he. He wore a pleated kilt of golden thread and on his feet gold-painted sandals, and around his shaven head a thin gold band with the hood of the cobra goddess Buto raised to strike his enemies. There could be no doubt who he was, and when he cried one single angry word—“Down!”—we all, his high-and-mightiness the High Priest as hastily as the rest, fell groveling to our knees.
“Hatsuret!” he shouted, his light boy’s voice cracking deeper now and then on the edge of manhood (but none, none, dared laugh, for this was a god). “Do you return at once to your vessel, and do you take this rabble with you! At once!”
For a moment it seemed Amon’s prophet might defy him—a strange dark glance shot from his eyes to those of Pharaoh, which glared back at him furious and unafraid. Their duel lasted but a second. Without a word the priest rose slowly to his feet, disengaged his torch and started back to the Nile, his awe-struck gang slinking off behind hi
m. He walked wide around the Good God, who gave him not a glance, nor he one at Pharaoh. There was something almost contemptuous about his walk, but our brave little King, for whom a great love was filling our hearts, gave not the slightest sign he noticed. He stood absolutely still, stern and unyielding, a gleaming handsome little god in the flickering light of his torch.
“Men of this village,” he said at last, his face softening as he looked down upon us, “rise to your feet.… You! What is your name?”
“Amon-em-het, Your Majesty,” I said humbly, my throat terribly raw but managing to get it out clearly. “Your faithful and loyal subject, as are all of us here.”
“So I see you are,” he said gravely. “And I see that you, Amonemhet, are a brave and honest man. I must humbly beg your pardons for the actions of the High Priest and those, unhappily for them blinded with wine, who have disturbed your peace this night. The High Priest, I think”—and his voice trailed away a little as some inner thought engaged him—“is becoming a little too high.… But that,” he added more briskly, “is my concern, not yours.
“To you I say this: Your Pharaoh loves you and wishes all to go well with your village. You will receive no more visitors this night, nor will you ever again be disturbed in your peaceful pursuits. To see that this is so, I do name you, Amonemhet, to be the Chief Headman and Leader of this village, and I do charge you to come to me at any time, in Thebes or Memphis or wherever I may be, if you need help with any of your problems. Do not hesitate, for I am your friend and you are mine. In proof of this, I give you this ring which is mate to another I have—” and he took from his steady finger and placed upon my shaking one a simple gold band bearing on its top what I could not read, but knew from its long oval shape must be his cartouche, worked in gold upon the carnelian. “I charge you to wear it always as the symbol of your office. If you ever need my help, bring it with you when you come to me and you will always be admitted. If I ever need your help, I shall send its brother to you. Do not lose yours or sell it or let it be stolen from you, for with it will go the powers with which I have endowed you.
“Men of this village! I charge you to guard and protect this ring and with it Amonemhet your Chief Headman and Leader, who will in turn protect you with my love forever and ever, for millions and millions of years.
“I, Neb-Kheperu-Ra Tutankh”—he hesitated very slightly—“amon, so decree it. And I wish you good night, and may the gods be with you always.”
He lifted his torch, bowed gravely to us as we all fell prostrate again, and started to turn away. Abruptly we could sense him pause; and peering up furtively through narrowed lids, we could see that in his path stood another gleaming figure, this one a man in his forties with a sharp, shrewd face, crossed now by a frown. We could see he must be someone very great, for his fabrics gleamed with a richness smelling of wealth and power.
“Ah, Cousin,” Pharaoh said (and we knew with a thrill that this must be the famous General Horemheb, King’s Deputy and leader of the armies, about whom we have heard so much, even in our humble village), “have you come for me?”
At this simple question, which to us seemed straightforward enough, a strange expression, twisted and odd so that it seemed almost to be filled with some deep, mysterious pain, shadowed the face of General Horemheb. We did not know why: it frightened us. Hastily he disguised it with a cough, raising his hand to his mouth; when it came away his expression was calm again. But it was very strange: very strange. Apparently it puzzled Pharaoh, too, for he repeated:
“I said, Cousin: have you come for me?”
“They await you at dinner, Son of the Sun,” General Horemheb said. “It grows late, and we did not know where you had gone. We were becoming fearful.”
“I have been talking to these friends of my faithful village,” Pharaoh said pleasantly. “I have been in no harm from them. On the contrary. But I must speak with you about Hatsuret.”
“Yes,” General Horemheb said, his frown returning. “I met Hatsuret on the way. He did not seem happy.”
“Nor am I,” Pharaoh said, still pleasantly but with a firmness in his voice that boded, we fervently hoped, no good for his high-and-mightiness Hatsuret “We must talk about that.”
“In good time, Son of the Sun,” General Horemheb said comfortably. But His Majesty was not to be diverted.
“No, I think tonight,” he said. “I had thought not until we get to Thebes, but now I think tonight. Come, Cousin,” he said before General Horemheb could utter the protest that clearly started upon his lips—yet why protest? We could not see the reason, but of course we are simple peasants and we do not know the things that trouble the great—
“Give me your arm, and let us go.”
And he turned once more to wave us a kind farewell, gesturing that we should rise. We leaped to our feet with a rousing shout that brought a sudden happy smile to his face. We realized then that, for all that he is Pharaoh, he is still really but a boy; and we shouted again, with encouragement and loyalty and a warm, deep love linking our hearts to his.
He said no more, but waved once again and turned upon the arm of his cousin and walked gravely away. We watched until they disappeared among the palms, watched even longer until we saw their torches emerge at last upon the riverbank on the other side of the grove and then ascend and disappear into his great golden barge; and even then we did not stop looking, but stood staring long and hard, straining our eyes as though we could somehow command him back again so that we could see him always with us in our village, our dearly beloved little King who now leads the Two Lands and cares for us in his heart.
So, as I said, you can see I am still here—and doing very nicely, thank you. Much better, in fact, than I, Amonemhet the peasant ever dreamed in all my days that I would do. I have His Majesty’s ring, I have his appointment to run the village—soon after he left, some question arose as to where we should place the new cistern and I said, “Over here,” and my friends echoed eagerly, “As you say, Amonemhet over here”—and I have his permission to come and see him if the need arises. I know that I shall do everything I can to help His Majesty and I shall do anything he desires, for he is a wonderful Good God. Long may he rule over us, with his kindness and his goodness and his love!
Now I am leaning against a palm tree in the darkness of the grove, chewing on a piece of sugarcane as I watch the glittering scene before me. Our families and goods are back, our animals are tethered for the night, the village mostly sleeps. Only a few of us are still out here watching what goes on, for it is probable that we shall never see its like again.
All along the river the great flotilla rocks gently at anchor on Hapi’s black swift-flowing bosom. Many of the smaller boats are dark, their occupants already sleeping, but from others sounds of drunken singing and revelry still come. Shadowy figures stand and fall and tumble about against one another. Now and again one topples in the river with a whoop, his friends pull him out with shrieks and roars of laughter. Thank the gods Pharaoh forced them to find their amusement with each other and not with us!
Most of the ten great state barges are still blazing with light. Some aboard must be eating late. Others must be busy with matters of government, which I suppose, for the great ones, continue even at night. Pharaoh’s barge gleams brightest of all, though its curtains are drawn and we could not see in even if we were closer, which we do not dare to be. No drunken voices rise from his barge. Only sweet sounds of music come from the upper deck.
A singer begins, accompanied only by a single harp and the occasional gentle shaking of a sistrum. His voice rises pure and clear like silver in the night. The other boats gradually fall silent to listen. He concludes with verses we have all known from childhood, for it is a very ancient song and even the villages know its sweet yet melancholy message:
“Bodies pass away and others come in their place, since the time of them that were before.
“The gods that were aforetime rest in their pyramids, and likewise the noble and
the glorified are buried in their pyramids.
“They that build houses, their habitations are no more. What hath been done with them…? Their walls are destroyed, their habitations are no more, as if they had never been.…
“None cometh from thence to tell us how they fare, to tell us what they need, to set our hearts at rest until we also go to the place whither they are gone.
“Be glad, that thou mayest cause thine heart to forget that men will one day glorify thee at thy funeral. Follow thy desire, so long as thou livest. Put myrrh on thy head, clothe thee in fine linen, and anoint thee with the marvels of life.
“Increase yet more the delights that thou hast, and let not thine heart grow faint. Follow thy desire and do good to others and thyself. Do what thou must upon earth and vex not thine heart, until that day of lamentation cometh to thee—for He With The Quiet Heart, Great Osiris, heareth not lamentations, and cries deliver no man from the underworld.
“Spend the day happily and weary not thereof!
“Lo, none can take his goods with him!
“Lo, none that hath departed can come again.…”
Softly his voice dies away. The harp shimmers one last note, the sistrum rustles into silence. A melancholy touches us all, we in the grove and they on the great boats. One by one the lights begin to go out, the revelry falls away. Soon it is no more. Only on Pharaoh’s barge the lights still burn behind the curtains: the Good God does not yet sleep.
