by Allen Drury
Again Ankhesenamon cries, “No!” Horemheb gives her a single sharp look, then his face becomes impassive. He can afford to be magnanimous in this moment of triumph, but I do not think he will be magnanimous for long. Already my mind is racing with what I must do.
“Therefore,” Aye goes on, his voice becoming even more of a whisper as he imposes this long but necessary strain upon it, “it is fitting that I should now appoint him Co-Regent, which I hereby do and charge you all to proclaim it and honor it; and it is fitting that he should be married to his sister so that his right to the throne can never be challenged. To do else would be to bring new troubles and uncertainties to Kemet—and Kemet,” he says with a sudden heavy sigh, “has had troubles and uncertainties enough in these last unhappy years. This is the only way to make the transition easy and secure for the Two Lands; and now, as always, that is my only concern.”
He pauses and looks at Horemheb, a long, searching look that Horemheb returns unflinching.
“My son,” he says, “you soon will have what you have long wanted. There will be no need for you to be harsh or cruel or unkind to anyone. That is all over now: let the past go. This kingdom needs charity and generosity and a loving hand from Pharaoh. I charge you to give it these, for soon you will have absolute power and no one can restrain you. Let Horemheb not be remembered as a vengeful man: let him be remembered as a Good God who sought always to bring peace and happiness to the Two Lands.”
“So have I always sought to do, Father,” Horemheb says, very low—but this time Aye seems to hear very well. Again he holds him in a long and searching look.
“So do you do hereafter!” he says, and for all that it is a whisper, it is an order: though it comes from a dying man and will be obeyed or ignored as his heir may choose.
“Daughter,” he says to Mutnedjmet, whose face wears now a defiant and obstinate pout, “I wish you to be married to your brother at once. You may live as you please thereafter, and no doubt”—the last faint ghost of a smile touches his lips—“and no doubt you will. But you are to go through the ceremonies and confer upon him the legitimate right to the Double Crown so the people may know that he is their true and lawful ruler. This you will do this night, so that I may know it has been done.”
Again there is a silence while she looks first at him, then at Horemheb, then back to him, then back to Horemheb. Finally, fixing her glance firmly on her brother, she says calmly:
“Very well, Father. For you, for Kemet, I shall do it: not for him.” Her voice fills with a savage sarcasm. “As for you, Brother! See to it that you do not come near me after our ceremony, ever again, because those two little guardians you despise so much are always at my door. They do truly cackle like geese, as you say. That is why they have always been there and always will be—to protect me from the various madnesses of the House of Thebes. They will cackle if you come for me. And I shall also have always by my side armed guards, loyal only to me, for I shall constantly re-examine them to be sure that they are. And they will strike you dead, be you Living Horus or no that day. So beware, Brother. Keep far from me!”
I think for a second that he would like to strike her dead right there; but the stakes are too high and he cannot. I doubt, in fact, that he ever will. They are two of a kind. I suspect that Mutnedjmet, Ipy and Senna will live out their lives quite happily and safely, coming and going as they please, to the eternal annoyance and eternal frustration of the mighty Living Horus.
Now Aye falters, his eyes begin to acquire again their wandering look; the long strain is starting to tell. He sighs heavily.
“Go now,” he whispers. “Granddaughter, give me a last kiss, for I may not see you again. I commend you to your cousin, who will be kind and gentle to you, for now he has no need to be other.”
On that point we all have reservations; so after she has kissed him, weeping bitterly, and after Nakht-Min, Mutnedjmet and I have left Horemheb to talk a little longer with one who has very evidently forgotten us by the time we reach the door, I begin at once upon the plan I have devised while Pharaoh has been talking. Not to my surprise, Mutnedjmet joins in entirely.
“Call on me for anything,” she whispers fiercely as the four of us stand for a moment in the corridor, clustered together away from the guards, Ankhesenamon still weeping as though her heart would break, as perhaps it finally has. “I shall always help. Sitamon?—”
“Yes,” I whisper back. “I am prepared. Come, Ankhesenamon! Come, Nakht-Min! He may die tonight. Come with me!”
As I reach the far end of the corridor Pharaoh’s door opens again and Horemheb comes out. Mutnedjmet has gone, Ankhesenamon and Nakht-Min have hurried ahead of me out of sight. Only he and I can see one another. We both stop. We exchange a long, unyielding stare. Neither of us gives ground. We are truly enemies now, though I, like Mutnedjmet, know I am safe. So are those I have taken under my care, if there is but time for my plan to succeed.
I incline my head, a slight, ironic bow. He makes no response. I leave him staring there, turn on my heel and hurry away. He does not follow for the moment, but he will: he will. He is the son of Aye, is Horemheb, and very, very thorough. I have until morning to do what I intend. It may just be enough.
***
Ankhesenamon
Ahead of us in her beautiful gilded barge goes the Queen-Princess Sitamon, traveling to visit her estates in the Delta. Following in this second barge come her household servants. Disguised among them are her new serving maid, Mutnofret, and the latest addition to her household guard, Seneptah. Them she intends to leave at her favorite farm near Tanis, where, she tells them, they will find an old friend she has hidden and protected all these years, with whom they will be safe to live out their lives, as they wish to do, together.
Kia! Dear Kia! Nakht-Min and I had thought her dead these many years. And all the time my aunt was hiding her near Tanis and keeping her safe, as now she will keep us safe! It is but one more of the many great kindnesses she has performed in this world: surely she will live happily forever in the afterworld! She tells us she will visit us quite often in Tanis. We hope so, for it will be a strange life for us at best; bearable, with Kia, but not really happy without Sitamon—and Mutnedjmet, who tells us she, too, will visit as often as she can.
When we left my grandfather’s room that night a week ago, both Nakht-Min and I thought we would be dead within a day. I do not believe Horemheb knows that I am pregnant, but the possibility that I could be would have been a constant threat to him: he would have had to kill me or he never would have rested easy on the throne. There would always be the chance of a counterclaimant; and if Horemheb is the kind of Pharaoh we all think he is going to be, a counterclaimant would find much support among the people and even the priesthood—because if Amon thinks he is not going to feel a strong hand, too, Amon is mistaken. The Two Lands are in for cold times as the new Living Horus seeks to bring all once more within the iron bounds of ma’at—as he sees it; and order—as he sees it; and justice—as he sees it. His brother and I are well out of it to be hidden away in Tanis. Even if he let us live at Court, it would be a cheerless world.
Yet even knowing this, it has not, of course, been easy to embark upon our new lives. I did not mind giving up my fine robes and dresses, but the jewels—the jewels! Ah, it hurt me to abandon such lovely things! But Sitamon was right: a serving maid with jewels would arouse impossible suspicion. Better to leave them for Horemheb to find and seize when he learned from Sitamon that we had “fled together in terror into the Red Land, not even taking food or water, so great was their fear of your vengeance. So let the Red Land claim them: they will not live beyond two days in that empty desolation!” I have kept only a small gold scarab ring that belonged to my mother, and it I do not wear upon my hand but upon a hidden chain beneath my peasant dress. And Nakht-Min has stripped himself of all possessions, too, keeping only a small jewel-encrusted dagger to remind him of past position, which he, too, keeps hidden beneath his peasant robe.
&n
bsp; We miss the finery, we miss the power, we miss being waited upon. It is strange to know that great ministers of state will nevermore attend us, that we will never again be able to clap hands and have a dozen servants come running, to realize that we have no power at all and that now it is we who must come running, at least for show in the presence of others, when Sitamon or someone else of rank claps hands. It is strange not to have our food prepared and brought, our beds made soft and comfortable, our every wish attended instantly by a hundred willing souls whose only duty in the world was to make us content. It is strange to realize that armed guards no longer stand always between us and the unexpected, the threatening, the dangerous—to know that we are now alone and unprotected and, save of course for such safeguards as Sitamon can provide us, vulnerable at any time to the chance of exposure, capture, torture and inevitable death.
But I am not the daughter of Nefertiti and Akhenaten, and he the son of Aye and Tey, for nothing. We have chosen to live, and if possible to have our child live (and the others we intend to have, because we have decided that we are married now in fact if not in ceremony), and for that we have had to make our bargain. We are blessed beyond all measure that we have so kind and loving a friend as Sitamon to assist us, and nothing we can ever do for her as “serving maid” and “member of the guard at Her Majesty’s farm at Tanis” can repay her for that.
So it is with a good heart and in good spirits that the last rightful heiress of the House of Thebes has passed forever from the sight of Kemet, and that, with an equal cheerfulness, the Vizier of Upper Kemet has vanished “in terror into the Red Land.” We have each other, we have our coming child and others yet to come, we have the love of Sitamon, Kia and Mutnedjmet, we are safe from Horemheb. There is much for which to thank the gods. All of the gods—and the Sole God, who still, I believe, watches over me.
Two days ago, near noon, we passed the village of Hanis and I wept for dear loyal Amonemhet and his simple family: I never thought to bring upon them such horror and I shall remember and honor them always. And now today, just ahead of the great golden barge that precedes us, I see the river beginning to swing slowly to the east, and I know that I am come again to Akhet-Aten.
As if at a signal, the others sense it too. The oarsmen have been singing: they stop. The servants have been chattering: they stop. Only the splash of the oars, the lazy snap of a sail, the cry of Thoth the ibis along the shores, break the silence. Slowly we glide on, the river widens, the great bend appears. To my right gleam the fading towers, the crumbling palaces, the ruined houses, of my father’s capital.
Do I see you once again, dear ghosts? I think I do. I see you, Mother, I see you, Father, I see you, Great Wife and easygoing, simple Smenkhkara, I see you, dear brave Tutankhamon bright and golden in sun! I see you, all our happy times of yesterday when we all were young and happy and the Sole God ruled!
Where did you make your mistake, Father? What happened to you, Mother? We lived in love, we wanted only love! Where did it all vanish? Why did it all go wrong?
Slowly we glide on, past the empty temples, the gaping palaces, the deserted houses. On the royal landing stage, rotting away and half sagging in the water, a single peasant with a donkey stands and waves at us. Through my tears I wave back. Your Queen is passing, last citizen of Akhet-Aten! Say farewell to all that here was bright and lovely, for it will not come again. Say farewell! Say farewell!
Blindly I turn and bury my face against Nakht-Min’s loving and protective chest. He soothes me, his hand brushing tenderly across my brow.
“Do not look back any more,” he whispers. “Do not look back.”
Even if I would, my tears are so heavy that I could not see.
Where did it all vanish, where did it all go? What went wrong, Father? What went wrong, Mother? What happened to our dream?
***
Ramesses
What happened to their dream? I stand here with Pharaoh, both of us beginning to slow and stumble as we near our seventieth year, and I ask myself: what happened to their dream? I am not one given much to musings, but here at what remains of Akhet-Aten I cannot help but ask it of myself—though I would never ask it of him because it is against all his orders and I would not dare.
Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and Nefertiti wanted only love: and horror was the end.
I am only a simple soldier, but I cannot help but wonder why.
Oh, I remember all the step-by-step: I can still name you each mistake as it came along. Pharaoh and I often discuss it and finally say to one another, “Well: let it be a lesson to us.” At least we know what not to do, not that either of us ever would. But still, I mean: what really happened? Why did it really go wrong?
These are questions I do not believe the Good God asks himself, even in the privacy of his own room. It is a lonely room, because he rarely has time for the harim and the Queen of course is never there—or if she is, it is only to taunt him for a while before she disappears again with her snickering little companions, who grow more obnoxious and repulsive by the year. We are all roughly of an age, but those two seem to be eternal; they do not age, they just crinkle away, sneering evilly at the rest of us, sharing some never ending private joke with their mistress. I think the joke is that he had to marry her and make her Queen so that he could be King. Something went wrong there, too, but history made it impossible to correct. She comes only to argue, and goes away.
So, too, did Sitamon until she died recently and unexpectedly at Tanis. In these later years she used to go often there, gradually almost abandoning her palace in the compound of Malkata, particularly when he was in residence. He has not been there much either in recent years, for he has always preferred Memphis and now for all practical purposes has made it his principal capital, though Thebes remains the seat of Amon and so he comes at the time of Opet and for other ceremonies. Mostly, though, he stays in Memphis.
Sitamon died of a seizure of the heart in her sixty-second year, having before then been in excellent health as far as we knew. She made her regular progresses about the country, joined Mutnedjmet in many charities, remained beloved by the people. There were many things Pharaoh was unable to forgive her, but being loved by the people, I think, was the most unforgivable of all. Nor did he like the way she too, like the Queen, never hesitated to challenge his decrees and complain to his face about his harshness. “It is necessary,” was all he would grate out to her; and lately he stopped saying even that, only turning away with a black and angry face. Finally he refused to see her at all. But she still remained beloved of the people.
Now he has appropriated all her estates save the farm at Tanis, which she left specifically to three of her serving people, the maid Mutnofret and the guard Seneptah, who are married with three fine children, and an older serving woman nearer her own age, Nessamon, whom they seem to regard almost as a mother.
(Things about them were different, wigs, clothing, ways of walking, mannerisms carefully cultivated over the years; but when he sent me to inspect the property for him I of course recognized them instantly. Instinctively I bent low to kiss Her Majesty’s hand—there was immediate consternation—but, having done that, there was nothing for it but to kiss Queen Kia’s hand and bow low to Nakht-Min. We stared at one another: I don’t know which of us was the more confused. At first they were terrified, but I gave them my absolute pledge that I would keep their secret. I have never said anything to His Majesty and I never will. They are no longer threat to him. And he is my friend: I would save him from further blood.)
Sitamon’s will was very strong that they should have the farm, calling down upon Pharaoh’s head the eternal wrath of all the gods if he interfered; and since it is, as he says, a rather poor and infertile place, though pleasant—and since he is not entirely sure, I think, that Sitamon could not make good her threat from the afterworld, so strong a person was she—he has decided to let them keep it. And to Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, now almost ninety years of age but still, up to her death, active as steward of her
estates, he has given her palace at Malkata for the remainder of his days.
So, aside from the Queen, who is as strong as he is and whom he will never control and now very seldom sees, all has been put in order by the Living Horus. Ma’at, order and justice have been restored, harsh laws and punishments govern all: the Two Lands are quiet and at peace because they do not dare be anything else. Abroad the Hittites still continue to press halfheartedly, but Suppiluliumas is also dead, Mursil II is a lazy weakling, and there have been no major clashes in recent years. All is in order save one thing. He has mentioned it to me increasingly of late, and today we are here to put it right at last.
He intends to remove the mummies of Akhenaten and Nefertiti and, I assume, return them to Thebes to lie with the others beneath the Western Peak.
Or at least that was what I thought he intended when we landed here last night. Now it is night again, and I am not so sure.
We have been twice to the Royal Wadi, the first time alone, the second accompanied by the small group of soldiers we brought with us. All but those two tombs are empty and deserted like the city itself. It has been an eerie experience to be here, because only among the trees at the very fringes of the Nile do there remain four or five peasant families. All else is empty, crumbling, open to the sands, deserted. The glassworks that used to produce such beautiful blue faïence were the last activity in the city to shut down, and that was five years ago. Shortly before that the last guards were withdrawn, the last contingent—two—of the once powerful priesthood of the Aten were arrested and sent to work as common laborers in the royal granite quarries at Aswan. Nothing remains here but ruined buildings and ruined memories. I shall be quite happy to get it over with, and leave.
We surveyed all the tombs today, not only those in the wadi but the Northern and Southern Tombs. The tomb of Aye, who died two weeks after the marriage of Horemheb and Mutnedjmet, was never occupied: he was buried hastily and with scant honors in the Valley of the Kings. Pharaoh did not even conduct the Ceremony of The-Opening-of-the-Mouth: we do not know where Aye is now in the afterworld, and his son obviously does not care. The other tombs along the hills, like Aye’s, were never finished and never occupied. The scenes they carried of the Heretic and the Beautiful Woman riding with their daughters about the city have been almost completely defaced on Pharaoh’s orders (as he also contemptuously ordered the de-manning of Akhenaten’s colossal naked statue at Thebes). Only the Hymn to the Aten has been allowed to remain intact in Aye’s tomb, probably because Pharaoh even now does not want to break entirely with the Aten, who still remains among the gods, though now a minor one.
