by Allen Drury
“First, however,” Pharaoh continues calmly, “I would tell you of the new officials of my court. The Councilor, Divine Father-in-law and Regent Aye, our most dear and trusted adviser, will hereafter be what I have already told you, the Grand Vizier. To him will report, assisting him and obeying his orders in all things connected with the internal affairs of the kingdom, our cousin and faithful friend the General Nakht-Min, who will continue in his present post as Vizier of Upper Kemet.” There is a wave of applause. They are pleased to have popular Nakht-Min remain with them. “Also working with the Grand Vizier and subject to his orders”—we all tense anew, for now comes the dangerous one—“will be our cousin and faithful servant, the General Horemheb, who in addition to his title of Vizier of Lower Kemet will bear the title ‘King’s Defender of Lower Kemet.’ To him, working with the Grand Vizier Aye, do we entrust the defense of our borders against Suppiluliumas and the Hittites and against all others who dare to challenge the power of Pharaoh, wherever they may be.”
Again applause, more perfunctory yet curiously relieved. They are glad to have Horemheb far away to the north, and busy. So, obviously, is Pharaoh.
Furtively we glance at Horemheb, demoted thus abruptly from his treasured post and powers of King’s Deputy and, in effect, banished, at least for a time, to the Delta. He loves the Delta, loves Memphis, loves the role of warrior-defender of the Two Lands: but obviously not on these terms. His face for several seconds is a study as he first flushes, then pales, then flushes again. But there is nothing he can do and he knows it. Our pliable youth of eighteen is pliable no longer. He is assuming his powers with the firmness that is his right. Horemheb would be well advised, I think, to accept, obey and reserve his ambitions for another day.
Until, that is, Neb-Kheperu-Ra does what we who love him have feared. Suddenly now, without warning, he responds to the urgings of his blood (or perhaps of his wife, who knows)—tries to be too clever—behaves like his brother—goes, we are almost immediately aware, too far.
“Through these good and trusted servants,” he announces, while all again fall silent, “I shall presently announce to you in detail the new plans and purposes Her Majesty and I propose for the Two Lands. They will seek to bring about a more perfect balance between Amon and Aten, and all the gods; to put an end to lingering factions within the land who favor one or the other; to permit, above all, freedom to all our people to worship whatever gods they please, openly and unafraid, placing not one above the other nor lowering them likewise. We have wished for this since the day we came to the throne; it has happened only partially. From now on the Chief Wife and I are determined that it shall be the true and universal state of our dear Two Lands.
“To symbolize this unity we desire for all the gods and all our people, I am ordering this day the start of my mortuary temple. It is to be built on the west bank of the Nile on that rocky spur which, slightly north of the mortuary temple of the Good God Hatshepsut (life, health, prosperity!) curves toward the river. There do I decree to the Grand Vizier, and to my faithful sculptor Tuthmose and to all my loyal artisans and workmen, these things:
“Halfway up the ridge, there shall be hewn a circular level platform which it will take three hundred men with linked hands outstretched to encompass.
“Around the edge of this platform there shall be raised a hypostyle hall of columns entwined with lotus and papyrus symbolizing the unity of the Two Lands.
“There shall be over these columns no roof, nor anywhere above the circle within them any roof; and they shall be open to the rays of Ra forever and ever.”
Sitamon and I exchange a disturbed sidelong glance. There is a restless stirring down the line of chairs. Something familiar and frightening is creeping toward us in the windy day.
“In the center of the circle there shall be a single stone shaft, circular in shape, the height of a man and the breadth of a man. It shall bear upon it no sign or symbol of any god or anyone, save at its base, in small, the cartouche of myself, the Pharaoh who built it; but on the altar itself there shall be no sign or symbol of any god.
“Thus will it be a place for all the gods, where all people may come and worship freely as they wish.”
Now Horemheb and Aye are looking at one another with growing alarm and comprehension; and over the others a frozen stillness comes. In front of us the crowd listens attentively but without noticeable change. They follow a step at a time, as he intends them to, and do not put it all together. The people are innocents who go where Pharaoh leads them. They do not look ahead, as we who have trod this tragic path before find we are suddenly looking ahead.
Serenely Pharaoh continues, while at his side Ankhesenamon looks up at him with approving adoration in her eyes. Have they really no concept of what they do?
“Down from the point of this holy circle which is nearest the Nile,” Tutankhamon says, his voice ringing clear above the sharpening wind, “there shall radiate twelve broad stairways descending to the plain. In the center at the foot of each there shall stand the figure of a god, beginning with Amon and the Aten at the two innermost stairways, followed on either side successively by Ptah, Horus, Thoth, Hathor, Isis, Sekhmet, Buto, Nekhebet, Ma’at and Ra-Herakhty.
“Thereby shall all be equally honored, and so may each who worships choose the stairway that suits him as he starts his climb to the holy circle of my mortuary temple above, there to find peace, love and comfort for his own heart.”
The circular platform—the circular row of columns—the unadorned altar—the twelve radiating arms … the Aten.
But so mesmerized are the people as they listen, so pleased are they by the honors to be given all the gods, so unable are their simple minds to visualize these symbols as though from above and to see them in one coherent whole as Pharaoh has cleverly described them step by step, that we can tell they do not perceive this. Instead they exclaim with wonder and pleasure and burst into prolonged and happy shouts; while Tut and Ankhesenamon, never indicating by so much as the flicker of an eyelash that they do indeed know exactly what they are doing, smile serenely out upon them.
“Thus,” says Tutankhamon firmly when the applause and excitement have finally subsided, “do I decree, and thus do I charge you, Grand Vizier, and all my loyal servants of the Court, to see that it is well and speedily done.…
“Good people,” he concludes, “dear children of our dear Two Lands: may all the gods keep you and comfort you, and may they give us many long years to rule over you that we may answer with our love the love you bear for us.
“And now let there be rejoicing until the last man has fallen to sleep!”
And he waves to them and then he and Ankhesenamon glance at us with pleasant, apparently innocent smiles, as the shouts and jubilation well up again and they begin to walk toward the golden litters in which they will be borne high through Thebes in the slow triumphal procession that will not end until many hours from now when they cross the river and return to Malkata.
Clamorously the people press forward toward Aye, who rises, wraps his robe about him and, with inscrutable face, gestures with his staff toward the Treasury and the granaries standing side by side on the road to Luxor. A roar goes up, dutifully they fall in behind: he goes to keep Pharaoh’s promise. Horemheb, his face set in sternly formal mold that reveals nothing of what he must be thinking, strides somberly toward the landing stage, looking neither to right nor left; the people open way for him in fear-tinged respect and close again silently behind him as he passes. He apparently intends to return at once to the Palace, there to take counsel of who knows what thoughts. Nakht-Min, looking troubled but managing to maintain his usual amiable outward aspect, chats for a moment with Ramesses, who also looks disturbed but as though he is not quite sure why he should be. Nakht-Min then offers his arm to Mutnedjmet and they too move toward the barges. Ipy and Senna skip squeaking along beside, receiving their usual amused catcalls from the crowd, replying with shrill and sometimes ribald rejoinders.
Sitamon and I are left to bring up the rear. For a moment we simply stand silently looking at one another, while around us our escorting guards wait patiently, and beyond the crowd surges away after Aye and the Good God’s promised bounties.
“Well,” she says finally in a voice low so that only I can hear. “We face the legacy of Akhenaten rather sooner than I had thought.”
“We must help Pharaoh before it is too late,” I say, my teeth chattering both from the cold rattling my old bones and fear of what the future may hold.
“So we must,” she agrees firmly, “and in this you and I must be allies, Amonhotep. Come back with me now to Malkata and we will talk.”
Gratefully I accept her invitation and we are escorted to the remaining royal barge that waits for us at the landing; not knowing that by then, of course, it is already too late.
***
Aye
He has come to me, stayed for ten minutes and, raging, gone. I am left to put the world together again one last time—if it can be done.
The day passed in parades and ceremonies. At last, as the Nile turned bronze and purple light began to fall upon the Western Peak, Pharaoh and Ankhesenamon returned to Malkata. Tey, Sitamon, Horemheb and I dined with them—early, for it had been a wearing day. Then they retired, he to their regular bedchamber, she to a special one arranged for her down the corridor some way from his. The birth of the Crown Prince being so near, they do not for the present sleep together, because she is having some difficulty with this pregnancy and is up much, and restless, in the night: it is better she be attended by nurses and by Tey, who watches over her with loving care. And he of course has his harim if he wishes to go there; though, being deeply in love with the Chief Wife, I believe he very rarely does.
On this night, for the first time in many nights, he drank a little more wine than he usually does. It was, he said, the exhaustions of the day which caused the indulgence; and the importance of tomorrow, which he wanted us to be sure to understand.
“I wish to sleep soundly tonight, Uncle,” he said to me, “because tomorrow we begin my mortuary temple and announce the new laws for religion, with which you must assist me. Much will be done for the Two Lands tomorrow, much will change. I wish to be fresh and ready for this. I am very tired right now.”
“I, too, Son of the Sun,” I admitted; adding automatically, “But I assume the changes will not be too great, as I do not believe the Two Lands to be quite ready yet for anything sensational.”
“Not ready ‘yet,’ and not ready ever, Son of the Sun,” Horemheb said gravely. “The kingdom has had enough of violent changes. So we hope you do not plan any such.”
“Only what will be best for Kemet, Cousin,” Tutankhamon said, a certain iciness entering his voice. “You may be assured of that.”
“I hope so, Majesty,” Horemheb said, standing his ground. “Good kingship requires no less.”
“I am a good King!” Tut exclaimed, blazing up with a temper that was suddenly, chillingly, reminiscent of his older brother. “You need not instruct me in my duties as King, Cousin!”
“Such was not my intention, Majesty,” Horemheb said, still calmly, though I could sense his growing anger beneath the enforced blandness. “It was a reminder only.”
“I do not need reminders!” Tut snapped. “Give me more wine!”
And he held out his cup imperiously to Horemheb, who accepted it with impassive face, brushed aside the servant who stepped forward automatically to assist him, went to the wine jar in the corner and dipped a portion, full running over, which he brought back and placed, still with impassive face, at Pharaoh’s hand.
“Now!” Tut said. “Drink with me, Cousin, to tomorrow and a better day for the Two Lands!”
For a moment Horemheb did not raise his own cup, but stared, still with the same impassive air, at the King. Finally he raised his cup and bowed.
“Very well, Majesty. I drink to that.”
“And I!” Tut exclaimed. “And let there be no more nonsense about it!”
Across the table Sitamon stirred instinctively as the cups met their lips, and so did I—both of us, I know, seized by a sudden fearful apprehension.
But of course nothing happened. Both drank deep and replaced their cups on the table. The moment passed without incident. In a second I was telling myself, and I am sure Sitamon was too, how absurd it was to have imagined for a moment what I know we both did imagine. Not even Horemheb—how sadly easy it has become to say, “Not even Horemheb,” when calculating degrees of evil!—would dare anything so desperate and blatant in the presence of us all.
We relaxed, the meal went on. Tut, growing more talkative from the wine, changed the subject, began reminiscing about the early days here at Malkata. Soon we were all recalling pleasant things—carefully avoiding Akhenaten, Smenkhkara and Nefertiti, of course, but still finding much to talk about concerning my sister and my brother-in-law and their great days on the throne—and so it all passed amicably until Tut finally announced in a voice slightly fuzzy from his unusual imbibing, “I am sleepy, and my wife should be in bed too, taking care of the Crown Prince. You will excuse us. Come to me at noon tomorrow, Uncle. We have work to do.”
“Yes, Majesty,” I said as we all arose, Ankhesenamon awkward with her pregnancy but looking beautiful with it, too.
“Good night, Sister,” Tut said, kissing Sitamon affectionately, a gesture she returned with a sudden fierceness that surprised him a little, though I could understand the reason for it: neither of us, still, was quite convinced we had been mistaken a few minutes before.
“Good night, Cousin,” he said pleasantly to Horemheb, offering his hand to be kissed, which Horemheb did gravely without change of expression. “You, too, I will see tomorrow, for there is much to be done to carry out my desires for your new post in Lower Kemet.”
“Yes, Son of the Sun,” Horemheb said. “Sleep well, for tomorrow’s sake.”
“What mean you by that?” Sitamon asked sharply, her worries breaking unexpectedly to the surface. Horemheb looked at her with a blank surprise and then responded with a calm, half-humorous air.
“Why, Cousin, I mean naught but what I said: he should sleep well, for tomorrow’s sake. He himself has said much depends upon tomorrow. I agree. What did you think I meant?”
And under his bland stare her eyes finally dropped and she murmured, “I do not know, Cousin. I suppose you meant what you said.”
“I suppose so,” he said comfortably. “I can think of nothing else I might have meant. But send word to my quarters by a servant later, and tell me, if you think of something.”
“I will,” she replied with a sudden flash of anger. “You may be sure I will send a servant to your quarters later, Cousin. I hope he will find you there.”
“He will find me there,” Horemheb said serenely. “I have no other plans this night.”
“What is this?” Tut demanded with a puzzled half laugh. “I do not understand all these riddles you propound, Sister.”
“She does not understand them herself,” Horemheb said in the same comfortable way. “Do you, now, Cousin!”
But she did not reply, only giving him a long stare, finally shaking her head and turning away. As she did so her eyes caught mine and a message shot from them as if to say, I am counting on you, Uncle: control him!
And so I think I still may be able to do, though at a price I do not yet wish to contemplate, so fiercely does it harry me in this once more haunted night for the House of Thebes.
After we had all said our farewells the party broke up. I could see that Ankhesenamon, too, had been troubled by Sitamon’s remarks and the hidden contest, whose nature she did not understand, with Horemheb. But she also was tired, too tired for her normally quick perceptions to function at their best; and by then she was also feeling as she said, a little ill, so she gratefully accepted Tey’s sustaining arm and they went off together to her bedchamber. Pharaoh, after once again bidding us all good night (a repetition he appar
ently did not realize, now that the wine was really beginning to claim him), went off to his, where faithful Ramesses and lively Seti still guard his doors each night—though this, too, I think he may change … or would have changed … I must now remind myself.…
What will happen to me! I have dipped my hands in horror so often for the sake of Kemet, and do not know now when, if ever, I will get them clean! Too many things have crowded me over the years. Too many …
I bade Horemheb good night and proceeded alone to my bedchamber. There my servant helped me undress, clothed me in my sleeping robe, lit a small fire in a brazier in the corner against the chill of the winter night. I dismissed him and prepared myself for bed. I was about to extinguish the lamp when sharp knuckles struck the door in a fashion not to be denied. I knew who it was instantly. My heart began to pound, my hands to tremble. I made them stop, took deep, deliberate breaths to steady myself, moved with a deliberate slow dignity toward the door. Once again the knuckles struck, louder and more imperative. I thought: He is not afraid of being heard. It was not necessary for my son to tell me what this meant, though he did so as soon as I had let him in and closed the door tightly behind him.
“I put a sleeping powder in his wine,” he said harshly and without preliminary. “Soon he will sleep a sleep like the sleep of the dead. I suggest to you that he must never be allowed to waken.”
“You cannot—” I said, wondering that I could speak at all. “You cannot—”
“I can and I will,” Horemheb said sharply. “He has revived the Aten this day and intends to revive him further tomorrow and the day after—and the day after—and the day after—until all the land suffers again from the madness. It must not be.”
