by Allen Drury
It would be nice, sometimes, to simply let go and forget the cares of government. It would be nice to be a common drunkard like everyone else. It would be nice to let the heart and mind reel happily down into that spinning forgetfulness that is the solace of so many lesser men.
It can never be. Duty is the life of the Regent Aye, duty is the burden of his family. Duty killed my sister the Great Wife, duty—as he saw it—killed my brother Aanen, duty killed my daughter Nefertiti, duty sometimes almost kills me.
But it will not occur yet awhile. I am the last survivor of the elders, and my course has a time to run before it is over. That I know, and Kemet can be thankful for it—as many signs of public gratitude show me Kemet is.
There is a knock on my door, furtive but firm. I say softly, “Come!” and turn to face my son.
I can see at once that he has worked himself to a pitch of anger and determination, and I can tell that he, too, has been fortified by wine. I decide it will do no harm for me to have one, and much to my advantage for him to have possibly two or three more, so my first move after he has bowed and kissed my hand (he is always very circumspect about observing the courtesies due the Regent) is to offer him a cup.
Surprisingly, he refuses.
“I have had too many already,” he says. “But you have one, Father, if you like. It will help you celebrate the unveiling of our new Akhenaten.”
“My son,” I say, taking my ornate chair of office, itself so elaborately gilded and decorated as to be almost a throne, “seat yourself and discuss this with me without dramatics, if you please. I do not propose to let myself be disturbed by a thirteen-year-old boy, particularly since I do not believe he intends at all what you anticipate.”
“How do you know?” he demands, not accepting the invitation for a moment, but going to the window himself to stare moodily across at riotous Thebes. “Listen to them! They would not care if he re-established the Aten full scale and began the whole business over again.”
“Oh yes, they would,” I respond sharply. “They are forgetful now but tomorrow they will remember. They were made very uneasy by his words today.”
“And you claim you were not?” he demands with equal sharpness, turning to seat himself. “Tell me truthfully, now, Father.”
“I was surprised,” I admit carefully. “Unprepared—startled—unsuspecting. But not, as I said, disturbed. Or alarmed.”
“You should be both,” he says moodily, “for he means no moderation though he babbles of it.”
“Your cousin does not ‘babble’!” I snap, for I learned long since it does no good to disparage without admitting the stature of one’s opponent. (“Opponent”? Do I already consider him so? I must not think such things even to myself, else Horemheb will have me off balance and on his side before I know it.) “Neb-Kheperu-Ra is a fine and thoughtful lad, and what he said showed much deliberation. Wherein lie your fears about it?”
“Where any intelligent man’s lie,” he says. “In the ghost of the accursed Aten.”
“Accepting the fact that I am of course very unintelligent,” I say dryly, “I cannot find myself as frightened as you of a simple boy.”
“I apologize for the word,” he concedes, “but he is no longer a boy, and he is not simple. I am beginning to believe that in his heart Tutankhamon is as complex as the Heretic.”
“I know you like that designation,” I say, again sharply, “but I prefer to let the past go. He is dead and can harm us no longer. He is Nefer-Kheperu-Ra Akhenaten to me, and will always so remain.”
“He is dead,” Horemheb says, “but I do not agree that he can harm us no longer. He is still alive in the hearts of his brother and his daughter, and he can still do his hateful work through them.”
“He will not,” I say calmly, “for I will not permit it.”
“You think I will?” he demands. “I am as sensible of what the kingdom needs as you, Father. That is why I am with you now.”
“I am Regent,” I remind him coldly, “and need no lecturing on my duty to the Two Lands.”
“Lecture not and be not lectured,” he retorts, and for a moment a genuine hostility flares between us. But before the moment becomes irrevocable his eyes drop and he says more calmly, “I am sorry, Father. But I am much disturbed by this day, and I do not think it wise to let ourselves think that it had no far-ranging significance, for I feel it does.”
“What did he say?” I inquire, making my own voice reasonable. “He said he wished to restore a balance between the gods. He said he did not want to exalt either Amon or Aten at the expense of the other, neither did he wish to take from one to reduce the other. He said he wished his reign to be one of reconciliation, harmony and peace for all the people of Kemet and for all the gods. He said he wanted love to rule again in the Two Lands, as it used to do. He said he wished all to be at peace with one another. I see nothing so unreasonable or frightening in that.”
“And he decreed—he decreed, Father, the first time he has ever dared use the word—that the temples of Akhet-Aten remain unspoiled and open to worship, that the temple of the Aten at Karnak be extended and enlarged, that Tuthmose make him a new crook and flail bearing the name of the Aten, and a new throne bearing on its back himself and Ankhesenamon being blessed by the Aten, together with the Aten’s titularies and cartouches. Quite a lot to say in a ‘reasonable’ address!”
“I will admit he may have gone a little far—”
“A little!”
“—a little far in his attempt to be conciliatory, but essentially there is no harm in any of these, is there? I hope you have not contemplated diverting the funds and energies of the kingdom to destroying the temples of Akhet-Aten when there are so many more pressing things to be done! Leave them alone and they will be forgotten. Shu will blow the sands of the Red Land over them soon enough. You will see.”
“But,” he says, his face stubborn, “funds and energies will have to be diverted to enlarging the temple at Karnak, will they not? How does that fit your complacent picture of it?”
“I am not complacent,” I retort, “I am simply practical. It is true that if we do that—and I for one think we must, for he is the Living Horus and he has given the direct order, and it is no great thing, and I will not be a party to a struggle over something so minor—it will take some funds and some number of workmen to do it. But neither will be great, I am sure of that. He will be satisfied with little. It is a gesture of policy on his part: I do not for a moment believe he wishes us to empty the treasury to satisfy it. If worst came to worst, I should simply refuse, in any event. There is nothing he could do. I think even at thirteen he is wise enough not to contest it. We can afford to bend a little.”
“And the new set of scepters, which are unneeded and an unnecessary flaunting of the Aten in the face of Amon? And the new throne, which is even more so?” He shakes his head. “No, Father: there is a purpose here that reaches far. It must not be allowed to grow.”
“It will not be. But there is no need for it to come to open battle.”
His eyes narrow and he looks back down the years. I know what he sees and brace myself for his next remark.
“I remember other times when you said that. I remember other times when you counseled temporizing and compromise. And I remember what happened then, how finally it all ran on too long and got out of hand, and you and I had to—”
“Stop!” I cry harshly, but he continues inexorably to the end.
“—when you and I had to countenance, and finally commit, murder—”
“Stop!”
“—murder, because we did not act soon enough.… And, Father”—his voice becomes low and he looks at me unblinking with the iron of my own soul in him, but many years younger—“we must face now, unafraid and unhesitating, the possibility that it may have to come to that again.”
“No!” I cry desperately. “No!”
“Cut down the young shoot now before it becomes a great tree, Father,” he says, voice still
low but implacable. “Cut it down now!”
For several moments I am unable to answer him, so hurtfully and with such searing force does my breath tear through my lungs, so wildly does my heart pound within my breast, so deeply do I crave that sanity return to this conversation which has suddenly become so grim. Too many ghosts surround us now—too many! I am not sure, for a little, whether I can muster strength to reply to him.
But presently my breathing calms, my heart subsides, a lifelong steadiness returns to the Regent Aye. When I speak at last it is in my customary calm and measured tones.
“There will be no more killing in the House of Thebes. Neb-Kheperu-Ra will not be permitted to go too far, neither will any man, least of all in his own family, be permitted to raise his hand against him. All will proceed according to ma’at and justice as has been the immemorial way of Kemet. Only thus can the Two Lands be served. And do not forget, my son: it is the Two Lands we serve, not the Two Lands that serve us.”
He looks at me for a long time, his emotions clear but his courage still not great enough to make the final challenge that both of us know he inevitably will someday. I return him look for look and never flinch, though it calls upon all my reserves to do so, and my reserves are also growing older now. But thank the gods they are still sufficient! It is his eyes, not mine, that finally yield.
He looks away again toward still roaring Thebes, whose wild hilarity sinks scarcely yet upon the night.
“I pray to the gods,” he says finally, his voice still very low, “that you are not making a terrible mistake, Father.”
“I pray that you will help me do all things right for Kemet,” I say gravely, “and that neither of us makes a mistake.”
“Good night, Father,” he says: bows low, kisses my hand; and straightens to go. His eyes once more meet mine and I read the message clear in them: Watch yourself, Father. I am waiting. And mine reply: Watch yourself, Horemheb. I have outwaited shrewder men than you … though I know in my heart what I now will never tell him: there are very few shrewder men than my son Horemheb.
I know, in fact, only one.
After he has gone I leave my room and walk slowly—hands locked behind my back—head bowed—brooding, brooding, brooding—for perhaps an hour along the sleeping pathways of Malkata. Only an occasional sentry greets me with hushed respect. All else is quiet in the Palace.
About my legs three dear little boys run and frolic, laughing, calling, racing, jumping, begging me to “play horsie,” “play ball,” “tell us a story!”
Ghosts accompany me—too many ghosts.
Across the river the drunken shouts of the happy kingdom still reverberate.
The Living Horus has returned to Thebes and all rejoice.
I shiver, and go in.
***
Tutankhamon
(life, health, prosperity!)
In the room adjoining, kind Ramesses and gentle Sitra snored; on his pallet against the wall young Seti, exhausted by our excited chatter of the glorious day, lay at last asleep, curled upon himself with occasional little gruntings like a puppy filled with dreams of hunts and chases. Very gently I reached out my hand and touched Ankhesenamon. As silently as I, she leaned close to me as I whispered, “I think I heard Horemheb speak to Ramesses a little while ago.”
“I, too,” she whispered back. “Ramesses said, ‘They are asleep,’ Horemheb, ‘I go to him now.’ Ramesses, ‘They will hear nothing.’ What do you think it means?”
“I think we should go and find out. Will you come with me?”
“Of course.”
Very carefully we rolled off the bed, our feet touched the floor without a sound. I slipped into my pleated kilt, she into her transparent gold-embroidered linen shift. Seti stirred uneasily, groaned, whimpered, turned and snuggled comfortably against the wall: his back was to us. At first softly, then with a deeper, steadier rhythm, he too began to snore.
The door was half ajar. We slipped past Ramesses and Sitra, drowned now in sleep like Seti. Very carefully we opened the door to the corridor: thank the gods it is well oiled and does not squeak. We were in the corridor, the door was closed behind us. All was silent. We clasped hands tightly: we were trembling but unafraid. We began to tiptoe along the corridor. Perhaps the gods directed our steps. Without word, without conscious decision, we found we were on our way to the rooms of my uncle Aye.
We took a turn in the corridor, bumped squarely into a sleeping guard. He staggered awake with a muffled exclamation, spear instinctively raised high. Instantly he saw who we were. I glared at him with my finger across my lips. He shrank back humbly against the wall.
“You will be silent!” I hissed. “You will tell no one!”
“Yes, Son of the Sun!” he whispered, trembling. “Oh yes, Your Majesty!”
“Good!” I whispered in return. “You will be rewarded well tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Majesty!” he whispered. “Oh, thank you, Son of the Sun!”
“Shhhhh!” I hissed again sternly. He nodded with desperate earnest and we passed on.
Outside the audience room of my uncle Aye we heard their voices. We crouched close to the door. We listened, staring at one another wide-eyed in growing terror. When we realized Horemheb was about to leave, we turned and raced back as quickly and silently as we could. The guard gave us an elaborate wink and pretended he did not see or hear us: I really will give him some gold tomorrow.
We sneaked past deeply snoring Ramesses and Sitra, past deeply snoring Seti. Trembling we slipped back onto the bed; trembling we clutched one another tightly; trembling we fought for sleep that would not come. Across the river Thebes still roared—for us.
***
Seti
They thought I was asleep but I fooled them. I heard them whispering, I heard them slip out, I rose and followed them as far as I dared, until they met the guard; then I dared go no further, I turned and raced back to my pallet. Now they have returned and lie again within their golden bed. I can hear it shake with their trembling but I do not think it is love. I think they are awfully frightened of something. Tomorrow I shall tell my father.
***
Book IV
Ordeal of a God
1353 B.C.
***
Hatsuret
They move more and more toward the Aten, the two clever ones who have pretended to be such mild and humble children. They have made their dutiful tributes to Amon, they have begun to restore his temples and add to his riches, they have tried to persuade us they believe fully in his restoration to his rightful place at the right hand of the King … but with his left hand the King does other things.
The Aten’s temple at Karnak has been extended and enlarged. His priesthood, while reduced, remains active in many places. The temples at Akhet-Aten, now almost deserted save for a few squatters who grub out their meager existence amid the crumbling mud walls of empty homes and ruined palaces, are still kept up. He uses the Aten’s crook and flail in public ceremonies almost as often as he uses Amon’s; and the special throne with its arrogant flaunting of the Heretic’s god conferring his blessing upon their ostentatious domesticity is carried with them, and used, wherever they go up and down the length of Kemet.
The Aten is not dead in the Two Lands, he is not even lowered as Pharaoh promised. He is simply being kept in reserve, and may be brought out again at any time to overwhelm us.
This I think Tutankhamon intends, and this I think the Queen encourages him to do. Tomorrow he turns eighteen and assumes full power. Will he seize the day to re-establish the heresy?
I say to you, O Amon, your High Priest Hatsuret will not permit it. I say to you that the Regent Aye will not permit it. I say to you that Amon will rule and reign forever, supreme among his fellow gods, bowing to no one, yielding to none, as he is meant to do, through all eternity.
This do I, Hatsuret, who have labored so long and hard to save Kemet from the evil and the unbelieving, pledge to you, O Amon.
I have not he
sitated heretofore to bring vengeance in your name.
I shall not hesitate, be it necessary, to do so again.
***
Tutankhamon
(life, health, prosperity!)
Around us the hordes of Amon grow more overweening day by day. It is not enough for dark Hatsuret, that hateful priest, to lord it over the temple at Karnak and parade himself up and down the land in all his pomp and glory. Always he is about the palaces, always he mixes in: suffered and assisted, of course, by my cousin Horemheb, who likes to have him present as threat to me, as I am bondsman (he likes to think) to him.
Well: tomorrow all that changes. All, all changes. Ankesenamon and I have been prisoners for nine years. Tomorrow we will be prisoners no longer.
After our return to Thebes we were forced to resume our humble pose: the conversation we overheard that night outside my uncle’s door terrified us so that for a time we feared constantly for our lives. Indeed, we still do, though after a while apprehension becomes such a burden that it dulls of its own weight. We had to go on living, of course. We had to continue performing the rites and ceremonies and duties that fall upon Pharaoh and the Chief Wife. We could not hide away, though at first we wanted to. We confided our fears immediately to Sitamon and through her intervention were able to secure from her own household guards a few we could trust to attend our progress and safeguard our sleep—in addition, of course, to Ramesses, Sitra and Seti, whose wards, you might say, we have remained: not minding that too much, since they are kind and loyal people. And because he seemed, that night, to be far kinder and fairer than we had thought him to be in recent years—and because Sitamon told us she also believes in his loyal determination to protect our rights and preserve us on the throne against the ambitions of Horemheb—we began cautiously to renew our trust in Aye.
