A God Against the Gods

by Allen Drury

  For instance:

  In my birthplace, while we have the same formal written language as all Kemet, we have a dialect that falls much easier on the ear: at least when we speak it has a flowing sound. There are places in it, as in my name when properly pronounced, where a gentler emphasis comes, as: Kah-ee-race. Not so in Upper Kemet and stately Thebes. Here the language is harsher and more abrupt. The name of the Good God may be written “Amonhotep” (life, health, prosperity!) but when they say it in their slurred, birdlike speech it becomes something like: “Mnhtp.” Try that, if you will!

  They write the Great Wife thus: “Tiye.” But they pronounce her name, as nearly as I have come to understand them: “Ttt.” And I, Kaires? “Krs,” if you please!

  If you would listen to a weird, amusing clamor, come with me to the docks here in Thebes where the unending boats come and go, or walk among the pillars and temples of Karnak when the worshipers gather for festival, or wander in the market any morning. Shrill, twittering, a constant rush of sibilants, gutturals and swallowed syllables overwhelmed by the quick gulps and hurried intakes of air that are only designed to keep the speakers alive until one statement can be completed and another slithered out like a snake—it is enough to make the foreigner shake his head in bafflement when he does not laugh outright.

  Since no one laughs outright at the ways of the land of Kemet or at the immortal ancestors of the Good God in the Great House who ordained these ways many, many hundreds of years ago, I decided early to shake my head and offer a helpless smile. This technique will produce gales of friendly laughter and a patient attempt to assist the stranger. Eventually one learns: and I am now already becoming quite proficient. As a result, Amonhotep the Scribe thinks that I will go far. My father has taken no notice of me yet, so I do not know what he thinks. But I agree with Amonhotep the Scribe.

  “Foreigner … stranger.” I note that I use these words almost automatically even now, when I, who am fifteen, have been here already three months. With my blood, I am neither foreigner nor stranger—though I have promised my father, on pain of banishment (or possibly even death, for he is a very determined and righteous man), that this is something no one will ever know. It does give me, however, a greater interest than most in the land of Kemet. It is my observation that I respect its ways and traditions rather more than do some of its own—not including, of course, my father, who guards and cherishes the peace and order of Kemet above all things. In that I find that I am already becoming like him: more careful of Kemet, let us say, than some others who live in the Great House, whose interest in the order and stability of the Two Lands is not quite what it should be: as I see it.

  Again, for instance:

  Today, everywhere, in the streets, in the shops, in the common houses, on the farms, in the little towns and the great cities, all the way along the river from the Delta to the Fourth Cataract, there is light and jubilation in the land of Kemet.

  Yet all is hush and tension in the Palace of Malkata.

  Another child is about to be born to the Great Wife, Queen Tiye—a son, say the priests of Amon.

  Here, if anywhere, it should be a happy day.

  Yet it is a somber one.

  Why?

  I do not know, and it puzzles me; and although I spent the better part of half an hour at our sunrise meal, trying to discover from my friend Amonhotep the Scribe, Son of Hapu, what causes the Palace to lie shrouded with secrets, he turned me off with sly jests and laughter. But he did not fool me. The jests were halfhearted; the laughter did not ring with his usual confident air. Something is on his mind today, and I take this to be very significant, for he is very wise and knows many things. I am convinced he knows the inner troubles of the House of Thebes. But he will not tell me.

  “You are too young for such weighty matters,” he said airily. “And, after all: who says anything is wrong? You sound like the girls gossiping in the harem. Abandon such pursuits, little brother. There are better things for you to worry that busy head about.”

  Now in the first place, as he well knows, I detest this arch “little brother” business, which sounds patronizing in the extreme to one with my background and intelligence. It annoys me.

  And in the second place, while I may be somebody’s little brother, so casually do the royal gods and goddesses of Kemet breed with one another, I am quite certain I am not his. I told him as much in no uncertain terms. But again he only laughed.

  “Be patient and keep your eyes open,” he said finally.

  “Very sage advice,” I said sarcastically. “Worthy of a great scribe.”

  But he did not respond with his customary half-affectionate, half-acrid joshing. Instead his face fell suddenly somber, and he sighed. An elder’s sigh can be rather devastating, particularly if the recipient is fifteen: Who knows what awful things it may portend?

  We finished the meal in silence; the slaves cleared the simple utensils away. He was off to Karnak, two miles down the river, to witness the formal arrival of Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!), to seek Amon’s blessing on the child about to be born. And I have been delegated for the day to assist Mu-tem-wi-ya the Queen Mother with the many letters she continues to send to her royal counterparts in the Middle East, even though her son has been on the throne for twelve years and she has long since ceased to have any influence.

  “It keeps her happy,” I heard him explaining just the other day to Queen Tiye; and since there is no harm possible from it—since her letters are all intercepted as they leave the Palace, are read by her son, and are then destroyed—it continues. Occasionally she expresses some mild surprise that she receives no answers; but the Good God merely asks her dryly, “What can you expect of the barbarians beyond our borders?” And since she has never thought very much of them this agrees with her own ideas and she accepts it with a shrug and a contemptuous, knowing little smile.

  I think, myself, that the old lady—she is now forty-two, I believe, quite a great age for the royalty of Kemet—is remarkably well preserved, aside from the slight mental vagueness that permits her to believe this little charade. Or does she believe it? Sometimes the glance she gives her son is just a trifle too bland. He never appears to let it bother him, but it would make me uneasy, I think.

  This morning I find her, too, to be in a mood that disturbs me. Normally with me she is very affectionate, very light, very fond, very motherly. She accepts our blood relationship tacitly, we never speak of it, but I know she knows: we gossip a bit. Already, in three months here, I would say I have become one of her most trusted confidants—indeed, a genuine friend. Normally, as I say, my hours with her are fun. Today she too is gloomy, restless, uneasy. Her words are sharp, impatient. There will be no letter writing this time. I discover she too is going to the temple of Amon: she tells me they are all going.

  “You had better come with me, boy,” she says, clapping her hands sharply for the ladies in waiting, who come scurrying up, twittering and chattering nervously, with the kohl for her eyes, the heavy gold rings for her fingers, the pectorals of lapis lazuli, carnelians and turquoise to hang around her weathered neck, the thick black wig to cover her shaven skull and surround her small, sharp face, the royal gold circlet with the uraeus, the poised jeweled cobra above her brow which she still wears on state occasions. “You might as well see us all in our finery asking the blessings of the priests on this new child. We put on quite a show.”

  And so they do, and today, as I too arrive at Karnak as the hour nears noon, seeing my friend Amonhotep the Scribe already well situated just by the entrance to the temple of Amon—he waves with a cordiality that asks forgiveness for his earlier sharpness, and I, naturally pleased at this public sign of favor from one so influential, wave back vigorously across the shoving, jostling, amiably colorful crowd—I realize that they will all be here, the House of Thebes and those who serve them most closely. They will be dressed in their finest—and I have learned already that it can be very fine indeed—for the edification of t
he people, for whom they are no more nor less than the embodiment of a dream, a fixed, unchanging and eternal dream in the unending story of Kemet, the great, the favored, the one and only land.

  Today it appears they are all coming by water, straight down the river from Malkata, instead of crossing to the east bank, taking chariots, and arriving with a great jangle and snorting of horseflesh, which is what Pharaoh has lately taken to doing.

  It seems better that they use the river this day. The Family and the river—they belong together on great occasions. It is more befitting. This I feel and so, evidently, does the crowd, for its response to them all is wild, excited, reverent—and loyal. Whatever troubles the House of Thebes, it has nothing to do with its relations with the people. The people are cheerful, happy, satisfied with their world, obviously worshipful and loving of Pharaoh, his family and his servitors. I must continue to look elsewhere for the answer to the undercurrent of unease that lies within the Palace, for certainly it is not carried over openly, here among the crowds.

  Listen to them shout! I ask you: Was there ever such an awed—such a loving—such a satisfied sound?

  Mu-tem-wi-ya is the first to arrive, myself crouching inconspicuously, almost concealed, at her feet. She stands in the prow of the barge, which is painted with electrum, the mixture of gold and silver so popular with the highborn in Kemet. Her right hand rests lightly but firmly on my shoulder, just enough to steady herself, not so obviously that anyone along the shores can see. A great shout of greeting, deeply affectionate and respectful, begins as her barge puts out from the landing at Malkata; it continues steadily all down the river to Karnak; it reaches crescendo as she relinquishes her hold on my shoulder with a quick, affectionate squeeze, and is handed to the dock by the Vizier Ramose, glittering from head to foot in his robes of gold, his great black wig gleaming down each shoulder, his staff of office held reverently at his side by a slave from far-off Naharin, north near Syria, come to his service through who knows what happenstance of friendly tribute or conquest of war.

  Ramose keeps his face stern and grave toward the Queen Mother, although these two are good friends. I have noted that no one of royalty or rank—with the single exception of Pharaoh, whose smile is fixed—ever smiles in public in Thebes: it is all very stern, very proper, very forbidding. At first I found this somewhat offensive, accustomed as one is in other places to a more natural way of conduct, even among the great. But it has not taken me long to see the reason, to understand it and approve. These are gods and those who serve gods: and such do not smile. Gods are not human or they would not be gods. Many centuries ago they learned this: how much easier it is to govern through love if love includes a very healthy share of awe and fear. This too is befitting. Pharaoh’s ritual smile is benediction, but it is so remote and inward-turning that it is also promise of great retribution if things do not move in ways pleasing to him.

  So Mu-tem-wi-ya arrives, accepts Ramose’s grave greeting with a nod of even greater gravity, then walks alone along the processional way, hot in the eternal bright sun of Kemet, that leads from the river to the cool dark entrance to Amon’s temple. The avenue is empty of people. It is guarded along each side by soldiers rigidly at attention. At their backs the crowds fall suddenly silent as she passes. She pauses for just a moment at the entrance (I having already slipped through the massed thousands to squeeze in beside Amonhotep the Scribe, who gives me an affectionate smile of greeting); two white-clad priests of Amon step forward to assist her; she bows low, gives each a hand; and so flanked, back rigid and erect, eyes straight ahead, disappears inside.

  A curious exhalation, low, sustained, tremulous, gentle, as though the whole respectful breath of a people were being simultaneously released, comes from the crowd. Then instantly they turn away, excited and happy again, back toward the river, as in the distance comes another rolling wave of roars and cheers. The next members of our royal gathering are about to reach us. Amonhotep and I strain eagerly to see who it is. The racing gossip of the crowd tells us before we can make them out: it is the two principal wives of Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!) after Queen Tiye—his oldest child, and so far only daughter, the eight-year-old Queen-Princess Sit-a-mon; and the Queen Gil-u-khi-pa, daughter of King Shu-ttarna of Mittani.

  The Princess Sit-a-mon is a small, dark, laughing girl whom I have seen several times in the Palace. Today she too wears the customary frozen mask, though from time to time a little genuine excited smile breaks through, which the crowds love and greet with an extra cheer. So far I have not had a chance to speak to her, but in private she appears to be very sweet, very jolly, very trustful, and loving of the world. She is obviously adored by her father, though I am told by Amonhotep the Scribe that Pharaoh made her his bride solely and entirely to legitimize his own succession to the throne, and that he (Amonhotep the Scribe) is quite sure that he (Amonhotep III, life, health, prosperity!) has no other desires or intentions toward his own daughter. Quite often, I understand, these father-daughter relationships in the royal House are not that innocent: quite often children result. This case, my friend assures me, is different, although of course as the daughter grows older and more beautiful the father’s self-discipline may grow less.

  Basically, however, the marriage came about simply because in this land of Kemet succession to the throne passes through the eldest daughter. Therefore Pharaohs often marry their oldest sister to secure their hold on the throne. This Pharaoh had no living sisters at the time of his accession. His marriage to Queen Tiye, who was not royal (he was then about ten years old), was arranged by Mutemwiya, his mother, and by Mutemwiya’s brother and sister-in-law, Yuya and Tuya, parents of Tiye and her two older brothers, Aye and Aanen. As Pharaoh and Tiye grew older their marriage developed into a genuine love match, so that now the Great Wife, Queen Tiye, sits almost equal with him on the throne, goes with him everywhere, is consulted on everything, in effect rules Kemet almost as much as he does. Love in itself, however, was not enough to provide the legitimate succession that Pharaoh needed. Therefore when Queen Tiye bore her first child, Sitamon—eldest daughter of a Pharaoh and, therefore, carrier of legitimacy—her father promptly married her to settle once and for all his claim to the throne.

  Nothing like producing your own legitimacy, as my friend remarked dryly in one of those confidential remarks with which he has already come to trust me; but in this case it solved the problem, was accepted joyfully by the country, and now Queen-Princess Sitamon is fully as popular as her parents, whose joy and delight she obviously is. She will never be permitted to marry elsewhere, of course, and as if to compensate, they shower her with constant attention, gifts, her own small palace and court within the complex at Malkata; and the people, understanding, seem to give her extra love whenever she appears—a small, bright, cheerful symbol of the strange contortions the needs of the throne sometimes impose upon the rulers of our strange land.

  At her side today stands Gil-u-khi-pa of Mittani, a bride of state married for political reasons by Pharaoh a couple of years ago in his tenth regnal year. He issued a commemorative scarab about it, recounting how she arrived with “a retinue of 317 women.” Many of these have been quietly married off to deserving nobles around the country. Gil-u-khi-pa also has been given her own palace within Malkata, but apparently, aside from an occasional rumored visit, as perfunctory as any he makes to the countless anonymities in his official harem, Pharaoh never goes near her.

  This would fully suit a stupid woman, but Amonhotep tells me that Gilukhipa is not stupid. Instead, she is quite intelligent, alert, informed.

  Official neglect therefore has made her jealous, turned her inward, made her bitter, waspish, vindictive. There is no sharper tongue in all Kemet, my friend tells me, than Queen Gilukhipa’s.

  “Stay wide of Gilukhipa unless you can use her to advance your own ends,” he said the other day—a rather odd comment, since if I have “ends,” at this point, he seems to be more conscious of them and more knowing about them
than I am—“and if you do use her, be very sure you never give her anything she can hold over you. Because she certainly will.”

  I don’t know what prompted his warning, but of course as with all I learn, I shall not forget it.

  Now she rides along in the second royal barge beside little Sitamon, the latter’s popularity concealing Gilukhipa’s lack of it: the shouts seem to rise equally for them both, which is probably why Pharaoh decided they should ride together. It is obvious to Amonhotep the Scribe and to me that she knows this exactly and is, therefore, probably even more embittered than usual. Her back seems extra rigid, her eyes exceptionally fierce, her demeanor more than necessarily stern and aloof. It is not until their barge is nearing shore that she shows the slightest sign of human feeling. At that point Sitamon looks up at her, tugs excitedly at her hand, points at the great snakelike crimson and gold flags snapping from their standards all around the temple, and says something with an eager, delighted grin. Not even Gilukhipa can resist Sitamon, and for a second she smiles back, reaching down with a perfectly natural gesture to adjust the child’s gold circlet with uraeus, which has slipped a bit to one side. The crowd rewards them with an extra roar. As if in reproval, Ramose greets them with an extra solemnity. They both become suitably severe again, walk together hand in hand down the glaring empty avenue, are met in their turn by the priests of Amon, and disappear inside the vast stone structure.

  From up the river comes another welcoming roar, and for a moment Amonhotep the Scribe and I speculate as to who it can be. The ranks of the House of Thebes are rather thin, at the moment: Pharaoh has his mother, no brothers, and sisters, Tiye so far has produced only two children, and all in all it is rather a shaky house. Tiye’s delivery later today (it is generally understood that she began labor just before noon, and is progressing well: how these rumors sweep through a crowd no one knows, but they do, and with an air of great authenticity, too) is expected to add one more son. But it will be several years more before the Good God can feel really secure in the midst of an abundant family. So who can this be coming now?