by Allen Drury
Others, particularly my father, know that essentially they mean something less than half what they say. He controls the other half, and more.
The Regent Aye is still the most powerful man in Kemet, though his son presses him hard on every count. We manage to work in reasonable harmony—for now. But inevitably the day is coming when one or the other must yield. As between a man seventy-one and one fifty-one, time, if nothing else, is on my side.
Much else, of course, is also on my side; but much is on his side, too. The Regent Aye is now the longest continuing link with what Kemet regards as the golden age of Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!), exceeding even Sitamon, who fancies herself in the role—as she has fancied herself in other roles that she will never occupy. She apparently thought she was going to be my wife. In all honesty, for quite a long time I thought so too. But things change, plans change. Mine no longer include such a position for her. It is unfortunate, probably, but there it is. Womanlike, she now refuses to see me at all, which I consider rather foolish. We have always been friends, always enjoyed one another’s company: she is an intelligent woman, I value her opinions and advice. She has turned against me, however, and today she has made it quite clear that she intends to side with the children against me and my father. This is not wise on her part, but she knows the risks and, I suppose, being a daughter of the Great Wife, has the character to meet them if they come. I hope so, for her sake.
In any event, Aye possesses still an influence in Kemet that I can only challenge, not defeat; and I dare not challenge it too openly, either. The day will come, but it will be awhile, I think. Meanwhile we work together in uneasy tandem, a tension between us that could explode into action when Tut goes if not before.
How naturally I use the phrase “when Tut goes”! Tut has been on the throne only four years, he has not yet reached majority, he could conceivably live and rule for another thirty, forty, fifty—yet somehow I do not think he will. Already, in fact, I have accepted in my heart the possibility that he, too, may eventually have to be removed from the throne as his brothers were before him, if Kemet is to flourish and prosper again. And that Kemet flourish and prosper again is my sole desire. I feel this even more deeply, if possible, than I did on the day I came to Thebes as eager young “Kaires,” so many long and bloody years ago.
All I have witnessed since, all I have been party to, simply confirms me in what I thought then: that I care more for the Two Lands and their welfare than even the occupant of the Great House. And now that I see opening before me the possibility that I myself may someday be the occupant of the Great House, this motive is even more insistent in my … particularly when the present occupant already shows signs of being as stubborn, as inflexible and as unmanageable as the Heretic himself.
I do not know what has inspired the boy to become so suddenly independent. A week ago he was a willing child of thirteen, shy, compliant, almost timorous in the way he acted in the presence of my father and me. You would have thought we were keeping him prisoner in some fashion, instead of aiding him in every way we could to restore the Two Lands to ma’at and glory. There were times when I almost thought he was afraid of us. Yet all that we have done we have done for Kemet. Surely he must see this.
Now he no longer seems afraid. I believe it began with the episode in the village when Hatsuret, who is an ambitious fool and sometimes a drunken one (with him, too, I may someday have a date to keep), tried to lead his stupid foray against the peasants and ran afoul of the King. I think Tut was so shocked and angered by what he found Hatsuret trying to do that he lost any lingering belief he might have had in Hatsuret’s pose of priestly piety. He also lost the fear of him, which he has felt ever since Hatsuret performed for us those terrible but necessary errands that helped put an end to the rule of the Heretic.
In those, of course, he was acting upon the orders of the Great Wife, my father and myself. He exceeded them in the case of Smenkhkara and Merytaten, but in case of Nefertiti and in my own rendezvous with Akhenaten, we did, viewing it now in retrospect, exactly what had to be done. I had not intended that we go that far—permanent arrest and secret imprisonment somewhere in the Red Land was my original thought—but Nefertiti provoked me beyond endurance, and so ended all.
“Husband,” she cried to that awful scarecrow he had become, “come with me and let us leave this traitorous dog to eat his own vomit as befits him!”
Me, her own brother, her friend from childhood! This she said about me, in the presence of all those witnesses, thinking herself too proud and too powerful to suffer the fate of those who flaunt the gods too brazenly and too long!
Something broke inside my head. A blinding flash of fury drove all before it. Behind her Hatsuret stood with ax poised. “Now!” I cried, and it was done. And having caused that awful thing, I knew then there was but one thing only left for me to do, and that was end the whole sad shadow show once and for all, forever. And so I followed him to the Northern Tombs and did it.
When my father and I met again a few minutes later, we did not know at first how we would face the Great Wife and tell her. But it was done, all done: there was nothing remaining but to move straight ahead. We told her with pain and weeping, we thought we convinced her that the final steps had been inevitable and necessary—because by then we were convinced of it ourselves: it had to end, they could not have been left alive, it would have meant nothing but chaos for the Two Lands. She appeared to agree, we left her. In the morning they found her sitting dead by the window, her head propped against pillows so that her sightless eyes could still gaze upon the eternal Nile and the kingdom she had loved and served so well.
Still there was nothing to do but move forward. It was done, all done. My boy cousin was on the throne, a new day had dawned for Kemet. A child of nine could not rule, it would have been ridiculous. The reins fell into the two pairs of hands strong enough to take them up. My father and I began our uneasy but inescapable joint rule of the Two Kingdoms.
I suppose it was understandable that my little cousin should consider himself a prisoner after that, because naturally we had to make decisions in his name, we had to repair the sad state of Kemet just as rapidly as we could. It was imperative that we restore ma’at and justice, bring back Amon as the principal element of stability among the people, place Pharaoh firmly once more in his position of partnership with all the gods. I wrote the restoration stela setting forth the things that must be done and proclaimed it in his name so that the Two Lands would know that this was his plan and intention. And the rebuilding of a shattered society began.
Never have I worked so hard before, never has my father labored so diligently—and neither of us has ever been a sluggard. The chaos in which Akhenaten left this land was unbelievable. We are only just beginning to see some orderly pattern developing again, only just beginning to perceive the possibility of re-establishing a sound and stable future—and suddenly Tutankhamon betrays us all by maundering off once more about the Aten!
Is it any wonder the Regent and I have been astounded and upset this day? Is it any wonder we feel as though the ground had been cut suddenly once more from beneath our feet? Is it any wonder that, whereas it took me years to come to the bitter conclusion that Akhenaten must be removed, and years after that to actually do something about it, it has taken me only a few swift hours to acknowledge and accept the very real possibility that Tutankhamon may have to be removed too?
I do not know what ultimate dream possesses the boy, what secret plottings go on between the two of them—for I suspect that she, like her mother, is probably the constant encourager and supporter of her husband’s follies. But I do know that it cannot be permitted to continue. I do know that if the heresy, which we thought dead with its creator, is to be revived in the person of his youngest brother, then this time there can be no long, spun-out unraveling of the years to bring it to conclusion. We are only just beginning to find our way out of the tangle left by Nefer-Kheperu-Ra. For the very sake of Keme
t, we cannot permit Neb-Kheperu-Ra to drag us back into it with our work only half completed.
Oh, I know he talked about “reconciliation,” “harmony,” “peace” and “love.” I know he talks—now—only of making the Aten a friendly partner with Amon. Those are pretty words—pretty words. Perhaps he is sincere in them. But we have heard their like before.
Was not Akhenaten sincere too? And did not sincerity lead very fast to fanaticism? And did not that in turn make inevitable Kemet’s troubles? And does that not mean that we have no choice but to stop it now before it becomes again a ravening serpent in the land?
Would that I were Pharaoh now, and there would be none of his nonsense ever again in Kemet! Would that I could seize power now and set things right once and for all!
No man deserves it more—none has worked harder or waited more patiently—none would be a more worthy servant of the Two Lands. The Pharaoh Horemheb (life, health, prosperity to me!) is needed by this kingdom. Amon and all the gods know it as well as I.…
I must talk to my father about this. I have sent word that I will meet him in his audience chamber here in Malkata an hour from now when Ramesses tells me that the children are finally asleep, and when, from the Court to the farthest reaches of Thebes, the world will be filled with drunkenness and roistering and no one will notice our quiet conferring.
I have been patient for many, many, years—all my life, it sometimes seems to me. All that I have done I have done for Kemet. I am getting no younger. Now Tutankhamon suddenly threatens all. The Regent Aye and the King’s Deputy Horemheb must decide the future before he becomes old enough to take full power and thwart us, as his brother did, when we seek to do what is right and best for Kemet.
***
Aye
He has sent word to me, my patient son—now suddenly impatient. We must talk of Pharaoh and the kingdom, and at once. I understand his urgency. I feel something of it myself after this surprising day. But I am not, I think, quite so anxious as he to leap to a conclusion that could only mean more unhappiness and horror for the House of Thebes and for the land.
It seems to me that all my life I have been mediating between the violent and the peaceful elements of both. Sometimes I have been successful. More often, I suppose, I have failed. Yet even though I now am reaching substantial age and showing a little in my physical reactions, there is nothing slowed yet in the heart and mind of Aye. I see through impatient Horemheb. What Sitamon told me years ago is truer now. He seeks to be Pharaoh, and it has, I think, become in him an obsession that rationalizes all he may feel necessary to achieve the goal.
This is a very dangerous state to be in. It can lead to a fanaticism of a kind different from, but no less devastating than, the fanaticism of his cousin Akhenaten. I grant to Horemheb his oft-proclaimed motive that all he does he does for Kemet; yet I think in his own strange way Akhenaten was trying to do the same. He sought to approach it on the spiritual plane of the Aten, hoping, as I understood him, to spread the goodness downward to the people. Horemheb approaches it on the practical plane on which he has always lived, seeking to make sure that goodness reaches the people by a route more direct: he will command them to be good and kill them if they aren’t. As between the two, given the sad condition of the Two Lands, I suppose for the present (and perhaps always in our long history) Horemheb’s way is the better and more certain of success. Yet I cannot escape the lingering feeling that in Akhenaten’s method there may have been some key to it all that we failed to grasp—but could have, had we but possessed a vision and a selflessness as great as his: even though with him, as I say, it soon became a fanaticism we could not follow.
There may have been a moment—just a moment—when, had all come right, we could have joined him in his dream and made it work. The traditions of Kemet were too strong. They had held us to a steady course, save for the Hyksos invasion and a few times of dynastic turmoil, for almost two thousand years. It was easy for us to turn back to them when doubt assailed us. And with Akhenaten, doubt assailed us early and often. He proclaimed love, but doubt ate up love. The fault was equal: Akhenaten lost his grip on reality long before we suspected, I believe. The tragedy had to play itself out to the end.
But it does not need to be revived.
All of that, we thought, was past. Yet tonight we face a new condition. The Aten is not dead with his unhappy prophet. He lives anew in a boy of thirteen, who says he seeks a balance between the gods to restore the Two Lands.
This, I know, is why Horemheb comes to me in anger and alarm. Knowing him and the methods he has resorted to increasingly in the past four years, I think the Regent Aye will have to employ all his resources to prevent further tragedy. And when all is said and done, the Regent Aye’s resources come down to just one thing: the Regent Aye.
I am seventy-one, last link, save for Sitamon, who has the people’s sentimental love but no power, with the great days of my sister and Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!). Like Horemheb, I too have many loyal friends in the army, many staunch supporters among officials of Court and government throughout the Two Lands. If it came to open war between us I do not know which could command the greater strength in the field: probably my son, for he is younger, more vigorous, more careful about keeping such alliances strong and fertile by a constant policy of pressure and reward. But he is weak where I am strong: my strength is in the hearts of men, and on that subtle but often decisive battlefield I am very strong.
After the deaths of my sister, my nephew and my daughter (no one will ever know the agonies it cost me to accept Nefertiti’s murder, even though I understood how it all happened in that terrible moment of fury, dismay and final disillusionment between brother and sister) there was a great revulsion in the kingdom, a great turning back. From it I emerged, as I knew I would, the one revered leader whom all elements respected and around whom all could join. Thus it was relatively easy for me to reject Horemheb’s too quick presumption in seeking the title and power of Regent: we both knew the country would not stand for it.
So he deferred to me, grudgingly but practically. Our contest was over in a moment, for essentially it was no contest: he would have been regarded as usurper, and all he attempted would have been sapped and subverted thereby.
Therefore we began our joint rule of Kemet uneasy in our partnership but aware that it was all that could save the kingdom. Behind the symbol provided by my youngest nephew, that sunny child who too soon grew sadly old in the shadow of his unhappy elders, we began the rebuilding and restoration of the Two Lands. Horemheb traveled constantly from Napata to the Delta, up and down the river, ceaselessly prodding, goading, directing, exhorting, commanding in the King’s name the rebuilding of temples, the re-establishment of justice, the restoration of ma’at and social order where it had so universally collapsed. In Memphis, Thebes and in Akhet-Aten, where we believed it best to remain for a while until the country had become fully accustomed to the idea that we would presently return to the ancient capitals and abandon Akhenaten’s city, I too worked tirelessly on the endless details of civil government and foreign relations, seeking to bring back an equal order to a system that had virtually died in Akhenaten’s last dreadful year. (In that time, also, we had worked in harness toward these same ends, only to find ourselves thwarted by the presence of a mature Pharaoh who had lost the will to live and the desire to govern—in whose name we did things, but hesitantly, tentatively, not knowing when his interest might suddenly revive and we might find ourselves facing punishment for things we had done in good faith and love for Kemet because he would not.)
With Tutankhamon—until today—we have had no such problems. He has been a malleable and apparently contented child, appearing to look with approval on all that has been accomplished in his name. He has obligingly given his seal to all that we asked, conferred on us the titles and powers we have requested. (Horemheb, I think, has requested a few too many, but I have acquiesced in this, since he seemed to need them for reassurance. I have k
nown his reasons, and my bland agreement has in itself been a kind of triumph for me, as he is aware with a chagrin he strives to keep secret from me, but which I know as I know many things.)
So we have kept Tut happy, given him the first traditional coronation in more than forty years, married him to my granddaughter Ankhesenamon, a child almost as beautiful, and fully as shrewd, as her mother; taken him on lion hunts and expeditions, shown him to the people on regular inspection tours which both he and they have seemed to enjoy, arranged for envoys to bring him interesting gifts from far places, done all we could to keep him entertained and happy while we have done the necessary business of government in his name. The education of both children has been entrusted to Amonhotep, Son of Hapu—what would we have done in the House of Thebes without that wise contemporary of mine!—and everything has been ordered to make sure that he would grow comfortably into the eternal mold of the ideal Pharaoh, steady, reliable, predictable and sure, as most of his great ancestors have been before him.
Until today and his surprising remarks on his official return to Thebes. I had been disturbed by our argument on the journey from Akhet-Aten but I had no real idea until he spoke today that another independent mind might have been developing under our very noses, so clever have both children been at concealing their real feelings. I am still not convinced of it, though I suspect Horemheb is.
It is nearly midnight: I go to the window and look across the Nile at Thebes. It is still brightly lighted with the flares of welcome and rejoicing. Across Hapi’s dark surface, covered now with many hundreds of boats riding at anchor while their owners, crews and passengers celebrate ashore, comes a steady hum composed of rollicking music, good-natured shouts, coy screams and raucous laughter. I have never been one to join in the drunken revels that always accompany our great state occasions—or indeed any other occasion, for that matter, since in Kemet high and low alike have a great fondness for wine and all that frequently happens in its wake—but tonight I almost wish, rather wistfully, that I did.
