by Allen Drury
“—and in me there lies the right to the Double Crown. Lo, at this moment while my husband whom you call Biphuria lies dead, I am myself the Living Horus, for no other rules now in the land of Kemet save myself.
“I am, however, but a young woman, surrounded by few friends and many enemies. Though I could continue to rule alone, yet my heart does not desire it and my enemies would seek to deny it to me. I needs must have a husband to share with me my power. That is why I write you, O King of the Hittites. This is what I ask of you:
“My husband is dead and I have no son. People say that you have many sons. If you send me one of your sons he will become my husband, for it is repugnant to me to take one of my subjects to husband.
“Thus will your son be King and Pharaoh of Kemet at my side, O Suppiluliumas. Thus will one of your House be given an honor never before conferred upon one who was not of the land of Kemet. Thus will our two kingdoms be united so that we may live in peace together forever and ever, for millions and millions of years!
“Thus do I beseech thee, mighty King of the Hittites! Send me one of your sons that I may marry him and have his help in the rule of Kemet. Heed me speedily, for Biphuria will be buried soon and on that day I must have husband to rule with me as King and Pharaoh.
“Great will be the happiness in my heart, and great the happiness between our two countries, if you accept my offer of the Double Crown, O mighty King! You know such a thing has never been done before. You know I do not lie.”
But that, I think as I finish reading and slowly roll up the papyrus again, tapping it thoughtfully against my palm as I muse, is exactly what I do not know. I still cannot grasp it. It is unbelievable.
“Mursil,” I say finally, “take my Lord Hanis and his son to your private quarters, dine them and wine them well. Let them sleep fully overnight until they wish to rise, for I can see they are weary from their long journey. Then tomorrow escort them yourself to our borders and let them return to Her Majesty with word that I am considering her request.”
“You do not accept it, then, Majesty?” my Lord Hanis inquires hesitantly, and I shake my head.
“Not yet,” I say, “but tell Her Majesty I do not reject it either. Tell her I must think about it for a time. But tell her I shall act quickly when I do.”
“But—” he says, face crestfallen, voice openly disappointed. His son tugs at his arm.
“We do not know the message, Father,” he says. “Perhaps His Majesty needs time to think about it.”
“His Majesty,” I say dryly, “would not say he needs time if he does not need time. You have a bright lad there, my Lord Hanis. I am sure he is of great help to you in your village.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says, his eyes humble as he acknowledges my perception of his true calling, but proud also in his son, which I like because I have many sons, and they are all fine lads and a great help to me, as his to him. “He is a bright lad, and we thank you for your patience with us in receiving the word of Her Majesty.”
“Go, then, and rest well,” I say, “and tomorrow begin your return to the Queen. Tell her as I say: I shall think and then I shall act. She will receive further word from me.”
After Mursil has taken them away I sit for a long time, musing. Then I clap my hands and order the servant who comes to gather before me at once the great ones who form the council of my kingdom.
To them I read Her Majesty’s letter. Their amazement is like to the heehawing of sixteen donkeys at feeding time.
“Since the most ancient times,” I remind them, “such a thing has never happened before.”
They nod and agree and babble on in noisy amazement. None, however, dares give me advice until, as usual, I myself decide what to do.
To my chamberlain, Hattu-Zittish, I say:
“Go to the land of Kemet, bring me information worthy of belief. They may try to deceive me. And as to the possibility that they may have a prince in spite of what she says, bring me back information worthy of belief.”
And then I tell my generals that I will lead a campaign against Kemet’s city of Karkemish in Palestine. My spies inform me it is ill defended and I know I can conquer it easily. I shall keep the war going for a while as I probe Her Majesty’s words, just in case it is all some kind of trick designed to lull me to sleep.
***
Ankhesenamon
(life, health, prosperity!)
He sends back words of disbelief to me. First I receive them from Hattu-Zittish, his ambassador, who speaks to no one else but whose presence, of course, instantly interests Horemheb. He tries to demand from Hattu-Zittish what it is all about. Hattu-Zittish is an old man like Aye, possessed of great dignity. He ignores Horemheb’s noisy demands and will not tell him: he speaks only to me. He sees my situation and he leaves. I send no word by him, because Horemheb would somehow extract it from him, but I know he will report truly what he has seen.
Meanwhile there also come to me, in great secrecy, my faithful Amonemhet and his son, using their peasants’ anonymity to slip within the palace walls. They also report His Majesty’s words. To them I entrust my written reply, and once again they begin their long journey on my behalf. I love them for it and tell them that I have already sent gold to their village and special gifts to the family, and will send more upon their safe return.
Tutankhamon has been forty days in his bath of natron in the House of Vitality. Thirty remain before he goes beneath the ground. Sitamon and Aye counsel me not to worry, that all will come right. But time grows very short. How can I not worry?
***
Suppiluliumas
Before me again come my stout Lord Hanis and his sturdy son. Her letter this time is short and sharp:
“Her Majesty Ankhesenamon, Queen and Lord of the Two Lands, to Suppiluliumas, King of the Hittites: greetings.
“Why do you say, ‘they are trying to deceive me’? If I had a son, should I write to a foreign country in a manner humiliating to me and to my country? You do not believe me and you even say so to me!
“He who was my husband is dead and I have no son. Should I then perhaps take one of my subjects and make of him my husband? I have written to no other country, I have written only to you.
“They say that you have many sons. Give me one of your sons and he will be my husband and lord of the land of Kemet.
“So say I, Ankhesenamon, to you, Suppiluliumas.”
And so, in truth, said Hattu-Zittish just yesterday when he, too, returned from the land of Kemet. And so, having taken the city of Karkemish meanwhile, and being in a position to be generous, and seeing also, as she so cleverly said in her first letter, that together we may combine our two countries into one vast empire that will control the world from the Fourth Cataract of the Nile to the borders of the Mongols, I have decided to send my youngest son, Zannanza, who is fair and favored and whom I love, to wed this determined lady and through her become King and Pharaoh of the Two Lands—a thing I never thought would happen in all those millions and millions of years they are always talking about.
***
Horemheb
She has sent out mysterious packages from Sitamon’s palace to some place along the river. We do not yet know where, though I have a hunch. Ramesses and his men are upon it and soon we will find out. Some instinct tells me that when we solve that mystery others will be solved as well.
***
Amonemhet
We have good news for Her Majesty and we sing as we leave the border of the Hittites and approach the border of our own land. Her prayer—which His Majesty kindly told us, saying, “I can trust two stout men of the land far better than I can my own nobles, my good Lord Hanis”—will be answered. The Prince Zannanza and his party will depart secretly for the Two Lands tomorrow and will arrive in Thebes two days before the Good God’s burial. Thus all will be ready in good time for Her Majesty’s wedding and an end once and for all to the evil ambitions of General Horemheb.
The Prince Zannanza and his party
will come pretending to be peasants—as I have gone pretending to be the Lord Hanis! I, Amonemhet, “the Lord Hanis”! Yet I will be, and you may believe me or not when I tell you. You had better, because it is true. Her Majesty gave me her word on it just before we left this last time.
“My good Amonemhet,” she said, looking more beautiful and determined than any lady I have ever seen, “dear to Neb-Kheperu-Ra and dear to me: when you return safely from my second mission, and when all is settled happily as I know it will be, I shall come to your village of Hanis and there my new husband and I will officially proclaim you what I have named you to His Majesty Suppiluliumas. You will truly be ‘the Lord Hanis,’ forever and ever, and your son and all your family will rise and go far in the service of our House. This do I pledge you on my word as Queen and Lord of the Two Lands.”
So, you see, I will be Lord Hanis after all. Who would ever have dreamed such a thing of the peasant Amonemhet! If I had not been brave on the day His Majesty came to Hanis, and so begun his love for me, it would never have happened.
Beside me my son is singing, too, as we see in the distance the guardhouse on the border of our beloved Two Lands. It will be good to be home, good to stop adventuring, even though “Lord Hanis” will come out of it. It has been very exciting for us to be involved with the great ones, but we will be quite content to return to our village and lead our simple lives—though now, I guess, this will not be possible since we will be called, as she has promised, to the service of Her Majesty in the Great House. Well, I shall do my best as I always have, and so will the rest of my family. We are simple folk but sturdy. Kemet rests on the likes of us. We carry the burden and do not complain.
Now we are within hailing distance of the guardhouse. There seem to be more soldiers than usual there, but this does not alarm us. I shout and wave and they shout and wave back. It is not until we are almost upon them that I see that they are carrying bows and spears at the ready and that their greeting is not meant to be friendly.
“What is your name?” their captain demands in a loud voice.
Suddenly trembling inwardly, though I try to remain outwardly the dignified “Lord Hanis” I soon will be, I give him my title.
“Where have you been?” he goes on, still in the same loud voice, while the soldiers encircle us, and my son, suddenly terrified, clings tightly to my hand.
“On business to my brother in the Red Land,” I say as calmly as I can.
“That is a lie!” he cries, and he gestures to the soldiers, who suddenly move to seize us both.
Desperately my son breaks away and begins to run. Before I can even cry out one of the soldiers draws his bow. An arrow flies. I do not know which is louder, my anguished cry or my son’s dying scream. I see him fall—I struggle frantically but helplessly in my captors’ arms—I begin to sob wildly as horror closes in upon me.
“Now, Peasant Amonemhet,” the captain says in a terrible voice, “you have upon you a ring and we intend to find it; and you have been to certain places, and we intend to hear about them; and you know certain things, and we intend to learn them. Will you tell us of your own desire or shall we make you tell us, as we made your wife and family?”
The world is spinning away, spinning away, spinning away, very fast: soon, I know, it will be gone. But with one last ounce of strength I summon what I can from my parching mouth and spit it straight in his face.
He does not hit me—he is, I suppose, General Horemheb’s man, and General Horemheb’s men do things with grace, for they are soon to rule the world. He simply wipes his face very carefully with his robe. Then he gestures to my captors and suddenly I am pinned down spread-eagled on the ground. “Now,” he says softly from somewhere above me as I feel the cold iron touch my private parts, “tell us things, Peasant Amonemhet.”
I try as long and hard as I can not to, but I do: I do. And death, when it comes at last an hour (two hours? three?) after he has begun, is a blessing of the gods for the great Lord Hanis.
***
Aye
I have received a message from Suppiluliumas of the Hittites declaring war upon us for the murder of his son Prince Zannanza, surprised upon our borders on his way secretly to marry my granddaughter. I do not know how actively he will pursue this, or how far he will get into our territories, but I do not blame him: I do not blame him. Horemheb has volunteered to muster a force and go at once to meet him, which I suppose is right .Horemheb manages both effects and consequences, these days, and it is only fitting that he should now attempt to settle what he has begun. Also his work on this has given him an excuse to be absent from my nephew’s burial, which has now started with ceremonies here at the temple of Karnak on a bright, sunny day, in the soft winds of spring. This saves us all from embarrassment, for I doubt that Her Majesty could look upon him without open hatred and I doubt that I could without showing the dismay and revulsion I feel.
As surely as Akhenaten ever did, Horemheb is moving away from us. I shall tell him so someday before I die. He deserves to be forced to face the parallel before it is too late: because sooner or later, somehow or other, he is going to take the Double Crown. It is still not clear to me how this will come about, particularly after this latest episode, but I have no doubt of it any longer. The will is too strong and the ambition too fierce. Having done so much, he will not blink at more. It will come.
It will not come, however, without one more struggle on the part of the Co-Regent Aye to preserve the order of Kemet. If it has to come, it will come in a legitimate and orderly way. I am as fiercely determined as he on this point. I will sacrifice myself, actually throw myself on his sword if need be, to stop him from stealing the throne and thus overturning the very ka and ba, the very soul and being, of the Two Lands.
At my granddaughter’s suggestion I have recently added to my titles a new one which describes me as “Aye, who is doing right.” And so I shall continue, as long as the gods give me breath. My son’s will is fierce but mine, for all my seventy-five years, is still the fiercer. I do not know how events will proceed from this day forward, but I am not afraid to face them, whatever they may be. I shall do right until all ends for me, as I have all my life for Kemet. I cannot change now.
Not, mind you, that it will be easy, or that I see my way clear to save the land from being ravaged by Horemheb’s ambition. But it will come to me, I think. I am giving it much thought, assisted by my granddaughter, by Sitamon, and by my oldest living friend, Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, that faithful one who continues, like myself, to serve our House in his final years. We are discussing many plans, considering many possibilities. It is not only Horemheb who plots, these days. He is forcing us to plot, too.
Meanwhile, the ceremony proceeds. The beautiful coffin of solid gold, bearing the likeness of my dear nephew as he used to look before the years began to harry him, round-faced, youthful and serene, rests on the platform before us. At its head presides the new High Priest of Amon, one Nefer whom Horemheb and I selected together: probably our last compromise, as he wanted one loyal solely to himself, I wanted one beholden to no one in the Court. We settled finally on Nefer, hitherto a minor priest in the temple of Amon in Memphis; a weak and elderly man who will last my time. After that Horemheb may do as he pleases. But while I live Amon will not take sides in the struggle for the Double Crown.
Now Nefer intones the ancient phrases, goes through the ancient ritual. Tut, I think, would have liked to be buried in the Aten faith, but this I did not quite dare attempt. Had I done that, I too would have been guilty of upsetting the balance. I would also have invited reprisals from Amon and fierce demands from Horemheb, whom Amon would then support even more openly than his priests do now.
Instead I decided, with Her Majesty’s approval, that we would use the rites of Amon. But in return for that concession we have made sure that in his tomb there have been placed the cross and flail of Aten, the throne of Aten, and many other things of Aten including wines from Aten’s vineyards and scarves from the lin
en mills of Akhet-Aten marked “Year 8” and “Year 10” of Akhenaten’s reign. And on Tut’s shaven skull there rests a beaded uraeus with four raised cobra heads, each bearing the cartouches and titularies of the Sole God.
Into the tomb also, small, cramped and limited, prepared as it was in great haste because of the tragically sudden nature of his death, we have been forced to jumble together without much order some two thousand other things—some taken from the tombs in the Royal Wadi at Akhet-Aten (where I am preparing, as he wished, to move the bodies of my sister, Akhenaten, Nefertiti and the rest back here to lie beneath the Western Peak), some newly fashioned just for him—some taken from the storehouses that hold funerary items originally prepared for other royalty but for one reason or another never used. Included also are the mummified remains of two of their stillborn daughters, and mementos of two of the Queen’s dead sisters, an ivory palette bearing the name of Merytaten and an inlaid box that once belonged to Nefer-neferu-ra. Maya offered a miniature of the King on his bier, Nakht-Min five ushabtis, tiny figures of the King wearing various crowns. Smenkhkara’s cartouche is on one of the coffins, and there is a gold pectoral that belonged to Akhenaten.
It is a great huddle of things, but all do suitable honor and will be ready for him when he awakens in the afterworld. We have made up in riches what we have lacked in space.
Nefer has finished now. The bearers lift the coffin to its baldachin, Akhesenamon, Sitamon and Mutnedjmet (and, of course, Ipy and Senna) begin their ritual wailing; Nakht-Min, Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, and I follow gravely after. We, too, are lifted into our baldachins. Slowly the procession begins.
Before the temple, through Thebes, along the east bank of the Nile, the vast crowds stand silently as we pass. Now and again someone bursts suddenly into a cry of sorrow, quite genuine; each time this happens a low, sympathetic groan passes from one end of the enormous crowd to the other. It is an eerie, yearning, wistful sound: they loved Neb-Kheperu-Ra, they wished him well, and now they fear a future without him.
