by Allen Drury
For just a moment Amonhotep and I speculate, though we know it cannot be so: can this be the Crown Prince, Tuthmose, named for his late grandfather Mutemwiya’s husband Tuthmose IV (life, health, prosperity!), and the other three brilliant Tuthmoses who preceded him?
The Crown Prince is six now, and only two weeks ago was installed by his father as High Priest of the god Ptah, five hundred miles downriver in the northern capital of Memphis in the Delta. My friend professes to see something significant in this—he regards it as a direct defiance of the priests of Amon here in Thebes—and yet why should Pharaoh have to “defy” his own priests? All the temples, all the priests, all the people, all the land, belong to him; he is the Good God who carries the word of all the other gods to us mortals. He is supreme. He is God. What need for him to “defy” anybody? Nonetheless, my friend becomes very mysterious and deliberately uninformative. I expect I shall have to probe for more, as time goes by.
Right now he says excitedly, “Wouldn’t it be something if he has had the boy brought down to sacrifice for his new brother right in the temple of Amon! Wouldn’t that be something!”
And for a second he almost hugs himself with excitement. Then he remembers abruptly where he is, pretends to be scratching his sides, relaxes and looks away.
“It couldn’t be,” he mutters out of the side of his mouth as we turn again to stare together up the river. “He wouldn’t dare.”
It comes as a profound shock when I finally realize, after a couple of disbelieving moments, that by “he” my friend means Pharaoh. It is the first, though I am beginning to suspect that it may not be the last, time that I have heard subversion spoken aloud in the hard bright sun of Kemet. Whom does Pharaoh have to “dare”? Again, I make a mental note to probe further.
For the moment, I myself do not dare to catch my friend’s eyes or indicate in any way that I perceive his meaning. We add our voices to the roar that now mounts steadily as the next great electrum-gilded barge approaches the landing. My friend gives a little grunt as we perceive who it is: not Tuthmose at all, of course, but the Councilor Aye, brother of Queen Tiye, son of Yuya and Tuya, nephew of Mutemwiya, member of that powerful family from Akhmim whose destiny seems to have become increasingly entwined, in these recent years, with the destiny of the House of Thebes. And will so continue, I hope for several reasons—not least being the welfare of Kemet, to which I already know all of them to be deeply devoted.
Aye is unusually tall for a man of Kemet, nearly six feet, where most are rarely more than five; in this he resembles his aging father, Yuya. He is a man whose visage in ordinary circumstances is almost as stern as it is on ceremonial occasions such as today; a man austere and somber—a man of state. I have talked to him directly only once, but even on that occasion, which one might have expected to be reasonably relaxed and friendly, there was no diminution of his remote and solemn manner. My immediate impression was that he simply adopts at all times a forbidding and indeed “stagy” aspect, seeking thereby to evoke an awe and deference men might not give him otherwise. I very soon concluded that this was too facile an explanation. Aye is solemn and thoughtful, careful and remote, because that is really the way Aye is; and the evidence of this is borne out by the fact that, of all men at Pharaoh’s Court, none wields more influence, both openly and in secret, than he.
Already he has succeeded Yuya as Master of the Horse; already he too refers to himself in his formal titularies as “one trusted by the Good God in the entire land … foremost of the companions of the King … praised by the Good God.” This flowery rhetoric, which I perceive to be standard in our land when men of importance refer to themselves, in his case, recognizes no more than fact. He is indeed foremost of the companions of Pharaoh the King, he is indeed trusted, praised and given power in some ways equal, though often more indirect, to that of the Vizier Ramose himself. In relation to Ramose and all the rest, he has one paramount advantage: he is brother of Tiye and brother-in-law to Pharaoh. But in Kemet, where men are amazingly well judged on what they can actually do, and where the lowliest in origin can rise upward rapidly through the society if he has the ability, this would not be enough to take Aye so far if he did not deserve it. He is, I have concluded respectfully already, a very wise, very perceptive, very farseeing, and very patient man.
Today he gives no sign whatsoever of the fact that intrigues the whole land: That his wife also lies in labor in their modest villa inside the Palace walls. Should it be a son, the House of Thebes will someday have another good servant to thank, along with Aye and Yuya, for its successes. Should it be a daughter, a destiny much greater may await. Twice, in Mutemwiya and in Tiye, the family of Aye has produced queens for Kemet. May it not do so sometime soon again?
None of this shadows the thin face, high cheekbones and level, intelligent eyes of the Councilor as he stands like a statue in his barge, nearing the dock at Karnak in front of the avenue of priests. For him, too, the people call out, and the sound that accompanies his progress is great. But for him there is not the affection they gave to Mutemwiya, the fond reception they accorded Sitamon and, with a good-natured generosity, extended also to unhappy Gilukhipa. There is more of solemnity in the cries they give for Aye. He is not liked in the way others are liked, for no man so austere and so obviously enwrapped in his own thoughts—Aye’s thinking, as my friend Amonhotep the Scribe put it to me, is louder than most men’s conversation—can ever evoke quite the unrestrained popular response given to others. He thinks, and he makes people think when they see him: in the presence of such an obvious intelligence, a deep respect, tinged not a little with awe, is all that he can expect. It is what he gets, in a greeting that accompanies him to the landing and then ceases, as abruptly and as dutifully as it began when his barge took water fifteen minutes ago upriver at Malkata.
And then suddenly, far off but heavy and insistent like the noise of some great reverent sea, a sea whose waves sound for no one else so profoundly, solemnly yet joyously as they do for him, the unmistakable noise begins and grows until it seems to envelop the universe. From Malkata the final barge has set out, and no one anywhere in all the world could have slightest doubt of who it carries.
The One Who Lives in the Great House, Strong-Bull-Appearing-As-Justice, Lord of the Two Lands, Establishing-Justice-and-Causing-the-Two-Lands-to-Be-Pacified, Horus of Gold, Mighty-of-Arm-When-He-Smites-the-Asiatics, King of Upper and Lower Kemet, Lord of Truth Like Ra, Son of the Sun, Ruler of Thebes, Given Life, the Pharaoh—Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!) comes.
Now the world splits wide with sound, the earth trembles, the skies are rent, the Sun looks down upon his Son with happiness and all of Kemet rejoices, united in one heart, one mind, one dream of unchanging order that has already managed to survive for nearly two thousand years and will go on into the future, as we say, forever and ever.
I find my eyes are wet with tears, I am shouting like the rest, at my side my friend is similarly overcome. It is impossible not to be moved as Pharaoh approaches. Yet even as I tremble, some cold, small machine inside continues to observe: I too am perceptive, farseeing, and patient, and soon I too hope to be wise with what I learn in Thebes.
So as his barge—not plated with electrum like the others, but, as befits Pharaoh, all in gold—comes slowly, slowly down the Nile, the oarsmen aiding the current with deliberate cadenced strokes in response to the rhythmic cries of the helmsman, the six trumpeters along each side of the craft sounding triumphant blasts from their long golden instruments at regular intervals, the long thin streamers, scarlet, blue and gold, flying from the golden canopy over the golden throne, everything glitter, everything gold, I study Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!), ninth Pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty to rule the land of Kemet.
I am thrilled by the presence of the God: but I analyze the man. In this I think my father might be proud of me, though he could never admit it, of course, for to analyze the God aloud, or to let it be known to anyone that you are doing it, is
treason and sufficient to bring death if discovered. Only Amonhotep the Scribe, noting my shrewd eyes searching through their emotional tears, realizes, I think; and already I think Amonhotep the Scribe is a true friend of mine, who will not tell. He thinks I have “ends” to seek in Kemet, and already I feel he is beginning to take an active and encouraging role in them, though I myself am not even sure yet what they might be.
The great barge begins its final approach down the channel to Karnak. And all the world cracks wide with sound … for what?
I see a small, brown, stocky, round-faced man in his twenty-second year, his height, perhaps five feet two inches, more characteristic of the country than Aye’s tallness.
To cover his naked skull he too wears the formal wig, its two pendant flaps descending on each side to rest upon his chest, the whole draped with a striped cloth of gold bound around his head. On his chin he wears the narrow-cut, false beard of ceremony, a traditional regal anomaly in clean-shaven Kemet. Over all is the round, domed Blue Crown of the Two Kingdoms, made of leather, and studded with gold sequins. It is encircled by the uraeus—in his case, not one but three cobras, poised to strike his enemies—the cobra being the emblem of the goddess Buto, patroness of Lower Kemet, who in turn is associated with the vulture goddess Nekhebet, patroness of Upper Kemet, thereby symbolizing the union of the Two Kingdoms. (The gods and goddesses of Kemet are another subject. Intelligent though I am, I shall have to study that one for quite some time before I can even begin to understand its endless ramifications!) Behind the cobras is the disk of the Sun, which is known here under various names in its various forms—as “Re,” “Ra,” “Re-Herakhty,” most importantly, “Amon”—and of late, with increasing emphasis, particularly in the royal House, “The Aten.”
Pharaoh’s body is clad in the pleated kilt of royalty, also of gold, held at the waist with a broad belt of gold encrusted with jade, amethyst, malachite, garnets, lapis lazuli, jasper, turquoise and pearls. Lodged in the belt is a wicked-looking jeweled ceremonial sword.
Loosely yet firmly he holds the traditional crook and flail, also gold, which, stretching back into the remotest antiquity of Kemet when kings first came out of the fields, symbolize his role as kindly yet all-commanding shepherd of his people.
On his face he wears a fixed smile, an expression stiff but more pleasant than the others. To the Good God it is permitted, as it is to his young daughter, to smile just a little, but for different reasons: she because she is a child … he because he is the supreme ruler of all men and all things, Son of the Sun, head of the Empire, servant yet co-equal of the gods, center and mover of the universe.
How must it feel to be born to such a place!
How must it feel to sit there?
I study his face closely as the golden barge approaches. Nothing speaks to me from its careful blandness but an opulent, youthful, self-satisfied, self-indulgent divinity. Yet there must be more behind: he, too, I am sure, must be affected by the unease that grips the Palace. But of course he cannot show it, and perhaps, buoyed up by the deafening happy scream that accompanies him, he does not feel it now, has forgotten it for the moment, thinks only of the excitement of the occasion, thinks only of another son being born—thinks only of being God.
Standing to the left and just behind the throne, solemn and stern, wearing the traditional high priest’s leopard skin, is his other brother-in-law, Aanen, younger brother of Aye, older brother of Queen Tiye, Second Priest of Amon in the temple at Karnak—second only to Pharaoh himself as ruler of the priests of Amon whose temples and holdings, fanning out up and down the river the length and breadth of Kemet, in farms, granaries, thousands of cattle, hundreds of smaller temples, minerals, gold, all kinds of wealth, equal in some ways the power and influence of Pharaoh himself.
What does Aanen think, too, and what does it mean to stand in such a place? He is not the man his brother is, and yet he holds great power.
Gently the barge touches land. As if by magic all sound stops. The ears still ring with it in the great hush that descends as Aanen steps first ashore, exchanges grave greetings with Ramose, turns and bows almost to the ground. With a stately slowness Pharaoh rises from his throne, hands to Aanen his crook and flail, steps ashore, reclaims them, crosses them again upon his chest; bows gravely to Ramose, also almost prostrate before him; and then proceeds, not looking to right or left in the absolute silence, to follow Aanen with slow and measured tread into the dark, mysterious entrance of the temple.
Once again comes that curious, quivering tremulous exhalation, as of a whole people breathing its soul in one great all-embracing sigh, which followed in lesser degree his mother. And then behind the soldiers the crowds begin to move, swirl, change. Voices break out, children cry, dogs bark; all becomes happiness and chatter as the people prepare to settle themselves more comfortably to await the return procession. None wish to leave, for all pray with Pharaoh for the safe deliverance of a strong son pleasing to Amon; and besides, now the pomp is over for an hour or so. It is time for picnic, before they must silence themselves to greet again, in suitable love and reverence, the Good God.
Amonhotep the Scribe asks me to hold his place for him while he goes and relieves himself in the public place behind the temple. I promise lightly: if he will return the favor. Being closer to the Palace, we are both still a little more under the spell of Pharaoh’s passing than the amiable crowds. We laugh but we are still moved, still thoughtful; our minds still race with many speculations, many things.
As I watch his compact little figure go scurrying off on nature’s business—the crowds making way for him respectfully, for it is well known that Amonhotep the Scribe, Son of Hapu, is a favorite of the God and exercises much influence in the Palace—I think about the pageant I have seen.
In this first great public ceremony I have attended in Thebes, I have been moved, touched, stirred: the mystique of the God has reached me, I will not deny it. Yet still the cold little machine inside keeps wondering: What lies behind, what does it all mean, what does it add up to? If the Two Lands are really well ruled by this solid little figure in the golden clothes, what means the unease in the Palace of Malkata?
I have seen him pass, glittering, glittering, and I wonder what he thinks.
I know what I think, though I take much care to conceal all trace of it when Amonhotep returns refreshed to keep his part of the bargain and release me so that I, too, may hurry back to stand in place another hour to see the golden figure go.
I think that I care more already, in my heart and mind, for the land of Kemet than he does. I do not know how I sense this, but I do. And I wonder if I will ever have the chance to give to her the devotion and the prudent husbanding which she deserves.
***
Amonhotep III
(life, health, prosperity!)
I pass them, exuberant and welcoming along the river and in the streets, or solemn and respectful as I come to worship in the temples, and I wonder what they think.
Do they think? Do they have any comprehension at all of the world I live in? But quickly I answer my own question: of course not, how could they? I am the God, and gods are not understood by mortal men because, as everyone knows, they do not live like mortal men. Gods are not worried about their families, concerned for their power, surrounded by shifting shadows that may be friendly one moment, hostile the next.…
I live with other gods, hundreds of them: strange figures of men with heads of falcons, rams, baboons, dogs, crocodiles—women in the form of cows, lionesses, scorpions, vultures, cobras …
I am their equal, their companion, their master and their slave. They surround me in all I do.
They surround me.…
Today began, as all days in Kemet begin, with my awakening. When Pharaoh awakes the world awakes, for I am the incarnation on earth of Ra the Sun, and of Ra’s son Horus as well; and no life starts, and no life lives, without me. All things start with me. So it has always been in Kemet, and so it will always be, foreve
r and ever.
I arose and went into my House of Morning, the small private chapel in the Palace of Malkata—and at once I was surrounded. Amon-Ra was instantly with me in the persons of a dozen white-clad priests led by my brother-in-law Aanen. Amon-Ra is the greatest of gods, the god of Thebes, the god of my House, the “King of all the gods” of Kemet and the Empire. He is also the god who owns half my kingdom: he is the god who surrounds me most of all.
Thus he surrounded me this day, as on all days since I inherited the throne, to watch me take the ritual bath in which I duplicate the way in which Ra bathes each morning in the ocean of heaven. As I bathed, I restored the life force that flows from me to the Two Lands, just as Ra’s bathing restores the life force that flows from him to the universe. When I finished, the priests, some wearing the falcon mask of Horus, others the ibis or baboon mask of Thoth, the god of wisdom and learning, anointed, robed and invested me with the crook and flail, the uraeus and other insignia of office. They gave me the most important of all, the “Ankh,” or symbol of life, which comes each day from the God Amon to the Good God, myself, so that I may in turn pass it on and thus give life to the Two Lands. Then I said the words that I say every morning to start life on earth going again after the night, just as Ra says them in heaven. And simultaneously, from the Fourth Cataract to the Delta, in all the many temples of Amon-Ra, priests representing me representing Ra received the Ankh and spoke the same life-giving words.
And so, in Kemet and in the whole world, life began again.
Now of course I would not have you think that in Kemet we actually believe that all life ends at nightfall and does not resume until dawning when Pharaoh-as-Ra says so. We are, so those who observe us tell us, a practical and pragmatic people, and we know, naturally enough, that many things go on at night—feasts, businesses, arrivals, departures, birth, death, love, robbery, murder—many things, while Ra is making the journey in his sacred boat back under the earth from west to east, passing through the stomach of the sky-goddess Nut so that he may be born again at dawn.
