by Allen Drury
In these things Aye has encouraged him, and when Tut has sought my advice I have counseled the same. I know our policies have disturbed Hatsuret, I think unduly (for surely Amon cannot honestly complain about all that has been given back to him!). I know they have made Horemheb uneasy, sometimes dangerously so, to the point where his father has on occasion been forced to warn him forcefully about it. But the Regent and I speak from the wisdom of seventy-one years, now, and we know our way is best. At least moderation has prevented another open clash between the Living Horus and Amon; and this is a clash we know must never occur again. None of us—the Two Lands, this House, none of us—could survive another such.
So it is with some trepidation that we await the full assumption of power by Pharaoh today. Yet I detect none of this among the people as I wander through the odorous alleyways and crowded streets of Thebes, jostling along with the enormous crowd that makes its way eagerly toward Karnak. There is a holiday mood in the air, a happy excitement: Pharaoh and the Chief Wife are very popular among the people, certainly the most popular pair to occupy the throne since the days of Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!) and Queen Tiye. Whatever dark doubts disturb the inner circle in the Court, they are not transmitted to the streets. There Neb-Kheperu-Ra and Ankhesenamon rule supreme. If the streets decided such things in Kemet, these two would reign for many years. So they may—I for one devoutly hope they will—if His Majesty is shrewd. Not even Horemheb will be able to do anything if His Majesty is shrewd. But from this moment on none of us who favor him can really help him set the course. It rests entirely now in what lies behind that handsome young face, which of late has begun to lose its youthful roundness and acquire a withdrawn, uneasy expression as its owner looks into a future that now belongs to him.
Slowly yet inexorably, like some vast oozing jelly, the crowd fills up the banks of the river and all the public space around the temple, pushing me along on its surface like a bug until I come to rest finally where I want to be, beside the landing stage near the foot of the platform that has been set up for the Good God’s address to the people. (He favors Akhenaten’s custom, and knows he is effective at it.) Ramesses is in charge of the guards this day, and through the crowds he recognizes me and sends two soldiers to escort me. I do not mind this assistance now, for I am in truth getting old and it has been a lengthy walk from where I first put ashore at the temple of Luxor. He provides a chair for me, which I thankfully accept, and then stands beside me for a time while we watch the people continue to come, and hear from upriver the first long-rolling shouts that greet the beginning of the royal procession. I have little to report to Aye that he does not know: Kemet loves his nephew and granddaughter; and upon their own shoulders rests their fate.
This I think even dull but reliable Ramesses senses (he is the perfect foil for lightning-quick Horemheb, which I am sure is why Horemheb has made him his most trusted lieutenant all these years) because, after watching the crowds for a moment, he asks me in his usual amiable, half-bewildered fashion:
“What do you think His Majesty will tell us this day, Amonhotep?”
“I think he will tell us he is happy to have full power,” I answer promptly, “and that he will use it only for the good of Kemet. Which is what all of us who have power must do. Including,” I add, for with Ramesses one must spell things out, and I intend the word to get back, “Horemheb.”
“Oh,” he says, “I think Horemheb intends always to do only that.”
“Do you?” I ask, speaking frankly, for I am indeed very old and Horemheb’s possible annoyance does not trouble me any more. “Would I were so sure.”
“Why are you not?” Ramesses asks, squatting on his heels at my side and lowering his voice so that we will not be overheard by the pressing crowd. “What troubles you, Amonhotep?”
“Horemheb grows impatient about many things, these days. Too many things.”
“Only those that threaten the kingdom,” Ramesses says stoutly, and I nod.
“Granted. But only as Horemheb sees them.”
“Who better? Horemheb is very wise.”
“And very ambitious.”
“Ambition is not a crime in a man. It has given him power to save the Two Lands, many times.”
“He has done much for Kemet,” I agree, “but now I think it time for him to relax a little and let things take their course.”
“But what course will that be?” he asks, coming back to his original point—Ramesses is not always as dim as one is inclined to think. “Is that not what we must learn from His Majesty? And is it not worrisome a little, since we have had so much misgovernment from the House of Thebes, and now know not what its youngest son may do?”
“You must not speak treason, Ramesses,” I say sternly, and though he looks a little taken aback he does not yield much. He is also stubbornly loyal and unafraid, which is another reason Horemheb values him.
“I mean not treason,” he says, “as you perfectly well know, Amonhotep. But this lad, like his brothers, worries me. He appears to be a good King but so for a time did they. Then something changed. Could it not change with this one? And would that not be a sad day for the Two Lands?”
“It would be if it came about,” I agree, “but it will not come about because he is not his brothers. He is himself.”
“But he has the blood,” he persists. “And he has the wife to match it, daughter as she is of the Heretic and the Beautiful Woman. It could be a bad combination for the kingdom. I worry about it.”
“I know you do,” I say, as around us the roar increases and distantly we see the first golden prow splitting Hapi’s waters, “and I know your friend does too, and so you worry twofold. But I tell you, Ramesses, this Good God you must not worry about. He has been well-trained, he is an amiable lad, he is possessed of common sense.”
“I hope so,” he says, his eyes widening with a bleak thoughtfulness I have never believed him capable of, “for I should hate to see more killing in the House of Thebes.”
“There will be none if all of us—all of us,” I say more loudly as the roar of greeting begins to overwhelm us, “who have any direct part at all—including you, Ramesses, you are as responsible as the rest of us—agree and make certain that all will go well. You must not be party to any killing.”
“I do not want to be,” he says with a shudder. “You know that is not my nature, Amonhotep, except as a soldier in the field, where it is all impersonal against the Two Lands’ enemies and does not matter. It is not my nature as a friend to all in the House of Thebes.”
“It is not the nature of most of us,” I say, hesitating for a second but then deciding to spell this out, too: “It must not be the nature of Horemheb, either.”
“It will not be,” he says, rising to his feet with a wince for muscles aching from his awkward posture at my side, “if the King keeps his part of the bargain and does not do anything foolish.”
“He will not do anything foolish,” I say firmly as he prepares to return to his post at the landing stage to assist the royal debarkations. “Believe me, Ramesses, he will not!”
“I believe that as you do, Amonhotep,” he says with an unhappy smile that robs his words of some of their sting but not their significance. “Pray to the gods our trust is not betrayed.”
“Go to your post,” I say, dismissing him with a wave. “Do what you can to restrain your friend, should it be necessary.”
“Pray with me it will not be necessary, Amonhotep,” he says as he turns away. “My heart would break should they of the House of Thebes turn again upon one another.”
And so would mine, good Ramesses, I think as he departs. So would mine. And you pray no more fervently than I about it.
Yet for a while all appears to be going well. (Indeed, looking back now in this night electric with horror, it still appears that all went well. With what insanity did the gods drive Horemheb to do the thing he did?)
First comes Sitamon, serene and gracious as always, receiving from
the city which is more truly hers than anyone’s—since she never really abandoned it during Akhenaten’s reign but always stayed as much as possible at Malkata—the loving tribute she always does. With her comes Mutnedjmet, small clever face almost submerged in a huge black wig. On either side her two little familiars laugh and chatter in their squeaky, privileged voices. To her the crowd gives an amused yet affectionate welcome: she long ago became the official jester of the House of Thebes, her eccentricities emphasized by Ipy and Senna, whom she has had about her for fifteen years and more. The people like an eccentric in a royal house, it gives them something human and comfortable to laugh about amid the pomp. Mutnedjmet has deliberately courted it. She has never married and probably never will; was one of her half sister Nefertiti’s closest confidantes in the last, tragic years; and now goes about among the people doing great good with many charities. She is much shrewder than most realize but is content to hide it behind the public character she has carefully created for herself. How such a one could be daughter to Aye and half sister to Horemheb must intrigue the people, too, they are both so stiff and proper in all their public doings. But Mutnedjmet goes her own way quite successfully and, aside from her friendship for Nefertiti, has managed to stay out of the unhappy events that have afflicted the Family.
Following Sitamon and Mutnedjmet comes Horemheb, riding with Mutnedjmet’s brother, his half brother, the Vizier Nakht-Min. (It is interesting to note that at the moment, until Ankhesenamon produces living issue, the family of Aye now outnumbers the House of Thebes.) Nakht-Min is his usual smiling, imperturbable self: he too has managed to stay relatively free from the Family’s agonies. Horemheb is dark-visaged, self-absorbed, somber, stern. To Nakht-Min’s smiles and waves the crowd responds with friendly cheers: he is well liked and much approved, managing as he does to moderate some of his half brother’s more stringent approaches to things.
For Horemheb, who makes no gestures, offers no smiles, scarcely looks up from the brooding study he appears to be in, there is but a scattering of applause, few cheers, no warmth. He gives none: he gets none. The people are afraid of him, which is sad indeed when one thinks back over four decades, (alas, so fast does time rush on!) to happy young “Kaires,” and when one pauses to reflect upon how driven the mature man is by what he sincerely conceives to be his duty to the Two Lands. Duty to himself, yes, because he has come to feel that he and Kemet are synonymous and that only he can restore her to her fullest glories; but duty to Kemet most of all, I do believe. I give him that: but the crowds, seeing only the increasingly stern, public appearance, knowing only the gossip and the whispers of the things he has done—hearing of them only, not understanding the inner agonies which prompted his actions and took their bitter toll from him when he responded—are not so charitable. They may approve in their hearts of what he did to rid the kingdom of Akhenaten and Nefertiti, but they seem to feel that he should at least smile at them about it. Then they could comfort themselves with the feeling that it was really all right … and they could get over their instinctive apprehension that they themselves may yet suffer equally from such an iron will, should he ever have the unchecked power to turn it upon them.
Much, much rests on the shoulders of Neb-Kheperu-Ra and Ankhesenamon. The people’s prayers, moved by a certain underlying desperation, are with them, and now from up the river comes the proof—that long, rising roar of love, whose deep, almost animal fervor cannot be matched in memory unless one goes back to his father and mother in their greatest days.
Neb-Kheperu-Ra Tutankhamon, Great Bull, Living Horus, Beloved of Goddess Buto and Goddess Nekhebet, the Two Ladies of the North and the South, Lord of the Two Lands, Great in Splendor, Sacred to Amon (and friend to Aten), twelfth King and Pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty to rule over the kingdom of Kemet, comes.
The greeting grows, swells, takes over the world. In the midst of it two small golden figures step down from their golden barge and stride sturdily forward to the first pylon where dark Hatsuret and his masked priests wait. After them comes Aye, face as always calm, mien impressive, receiving from the people that special sound of deep respect and humble worship that his advanced age and unique place in their hearts always guarantee him: His tribute and, one suspects, his shield against the ambitions of his son. He accepts it with a dignified but smiling bow—he has taken to smiling in public in the last few years, as part of his subtle campaign to hold Horemheb in check—and, as always, the crowd is delighted at such humanity from one who most of his life has appeared basically kindly but outwardly unbending and severe. He decided some time ago, apparently, to let Horemheb be the one to look unbending and severe if he so desires; and since Horemheb obliges without the saving grace of also being kindly, it is Aye who profits in their contest for the trust of the people. One would think Horemheb would perceive this and moderate his own severity accordingly; but Horemheb, like all in this powerful, headstrong group, goes his own way.
Pharaoh and Ankhesenamon move on to the first pylon. Behind them the rest of us fall in line. I hate to give up my comfortable chair but now my presence is expected, so I must comply. I wince like Ramesses from aching muscles as I take my place. We move on into the temple, where Hatsuret presides in his usual imperious fashion over the rites of Amon which are designed to sanctify this day.
These completed—Pharaoh and Ankhesenamon going through the rituals with impassive faces that reveal nothing to their closely watching elders—we return to the platform set up in the open field beside the temple. I am able to sit down again, this time with the Family, and a welcome relief it is. I am seated beside Sitamon, who greets me with kindly concern and presently murmurs, “Come to me tomorrow at Malkata. I have an idea for you,” which leaves me puzzled but intrigued. She is a generous soul, Sitamon, bearing well, after an initial period of bitterness, her disappointment that Horemheb apparently will never marry her. I think she is better off, myself, and I suspect she has concluded the same.
When we are all arranged, the crowd having finally quieted its restless pushing and shoving and the occasional renewed bursts of cheering with which it has relieved its boredom while we have been inside, an attentive silence settles over all. Tutankhamon rises and moves forward to center stage. The silence, if possible, grows deeper.
His arms are crossed beneath the robe he wears against the cold: he is holding crook and flail. The two sets are so nearly of a size that one has to look closely sometimes to tell which he is carrying. The crowd cannot see, but we can: today it is the Aten, and with a wry little smile visible only to us seated behind him, he turns and hands them to Hatsuret, standing at the side. Hatsuret looks for a second as though he would like to crack them over his knee, but of course he has no choice but to accept them. He passes them hurriedly on to a younger priest behind him: so hurriedly that Pharaoh again smiles the slightest of smiles as he turns back to face the crowd.
“My people of Kemet!” he cries, and his voice rings clear and strong over the blustery gusts that sweep off the river. “I greet you on this day when I come fully to my heritage. I thank you for your kind attendance on these ceremonies, and I want you to know that on your loves I rest my rule as King and Living Horus.”
It is a graceful opening, received with great applause and gratification. He has made himself one of them in these warm initial remarks, and he binds them even closer with his next.
“In honor of this day and so that all here may suitably celebrate with Her Majesty and me our happiness in your loyal loves I am ordering that the granaries be opened so that each among you may receive a goodly share of food this day. And I am further ordering that from the Treasury the Grand Vizier Aye”—there is a stirring among the Family, for now we know what he intends for Aye, a title and office supreme and unusual, if not entirely unknown, in our history—“shall distribute to each and every one who comes to him between now and the time when Ra-Atum sinks to rest behind the Western Peak one weight of gold apiece with which to celebrate this day, or feed his
family, or do with what he will.”
Now the response is joyous indeed: he has appealed to their loyalty, their stomachs and their greed. So far it is a very skillful performance. Now he moves on to deeper things.
“My people of Kemet,” he says, and he lowers his voice deliberately so that they must now be absolutely still and strain with all their attention if they are to hear his words, “it is now five years almost to the day since the Chief Wife and I left our capital of Akhet-Aten to return to our capitals of Thebes and Memphis. In that time, as you know, much has been done to rebuild the temples of Amon and the other gods, to restore civil order to the land, to strengthen our defenses against our enemies of the Nine Bows who threaten our borders, particularly King Supp-i-lu-li-u-mas of the Hittites, who wars against us. Much has been done to restore to the Two Lands peace where peace, for a time, did not exist.
“Much, however”—and a certain sternness enters his voice which makes the silence, if possible, more profound—“remains to be done. Amon has been restored, the Aten has been reduced. A balance has been sought. Yet the Two Lands do not yet know the full and universal peace Her Majesty and I would like to see. For this reason we would propose new plans and policies for the kingdom.”
Now the apprehension we have been feeling in the Court as we neared this day springs back full-blown in all our hearts. What “new plans,” what “new purposes”? Others announced new plans and purposes from this same spot: disaster was the child of their intentions. Pray it may not be so with Tutankhamon! Aye, Horemheb, Hatsuret, Nakht-Min, Ramesses, Mutnedjmet, Sitamon, myself—no common subject listens more intently than we.
