A God Against the Gods

by Allen Drury

  “He will strike dead him who does not tell the truth, Brother.” And suddenly I fling up my arm toward the god and shout into the musty dust of centuries, “Now! Now!”

  And my brother Aanen falls in terror, cringing and crying at my feet. And so we stay for some seconds until gradually the color returns to his face, some resurgence of determination to his jaw, a new and dangerous hatred in his eyes.

  Slowly he gathers himself together, slowly rises. When he speaks it is in a whisper filled with savagery and no longer afraid.

  “If Pharaoh takes vengeance upon Amon he will split asunder the land of Kemet and destroy the world. We may be destroyed, Brother, but he and his House will also be destroyed in such a battle. That would be the madness, not the disciplining of a Good God who has grown too great.”

  “And what of Amon who has grown too great?” I demand bitterly. But I see that my brother is lost to us forever.

  “There is no solution for it, Brother,” he says with a returning confidence, “except this: that we have to live together. So let us do so peaceably and as friendly equals.”

  “But Amon does not wish to be an equal, Brother,” I say. “He wishes to rule.”

  “Tell the Good God,” he says, and now he has recovered sufficiently that it is his voice which holds the menace, “that he would be most unwise—most unwise—to seek to topple Amon. For Amon lives. Amon lives!” And turning his back to me, he raises both arms to the god and begins to chant: “O Amon-Ra, O King of the gods, O highest of the high, mightiest of the mighty, maker of the world, spanner of the horizons, terrible in strength, awful in vengeance, O Amon, Amon, thou who art forever—”

  And so I leave him as the eerie babble continues, supplicating his idol who looks down from above unmoved by mortal men. But it is not mortal men he deals with now. It is a god like himself.

  I leave my brother alone in the gloom, chanting madly on beneath the golden figure, and I go to find the Queen Mother. And in my heart of hearts I know, for Aye is honest with all men and above all with himself, that my brother—may Anubis, welcomer of the dead, and the forty-two judges who bar the gates of the afterworld deny him entry to the Field of Rushes where the Westerners live on into eternity beneath the guardian gaze of Mert-se-ger, the Lover of Him Who Makes Silence, the goddess of the Western Peak!—I know that my brother is right.

  We do have to live with one another, and if Amon is to be defeated, it must be done with more caution and more care than my poor sister and brother-in-law have lately shown.

  Alas! I cry for them, and for the boy, who was an intelligent child and might have been a great Pharaoh! But the needs of the world press on.

  I go to find her who must carry the news and comfort them in their anguish.

  ***

  Mutemwiya

  Horror, horror, for the House of Thebes! And I, an old, frail woman, must now be strong enough to help them all.

  Well: so I am. It has been my son’s custom in recent years to humor me, to pretend that I am beginning to wander in my mind, to assume, pleasantly but firmly, that I am leaving behind all interest in affairs of state. But he knows this is not so. He knows I write constantly to all our allies throughout the Empire. He knows I continue the great work of his father, Tuthmose IV (life, health, prosperity!), without which, and without the work of his ancestors who went before, his present state would be nothing.

  He is an odd mixture, my son. He cares for Kemet, he makes the little show of interest necessary to hold together the Empire, he loves and adores the Great Wife and their children, he is very jealous of the authority and continuation of our House—but I think he is beginning to become obsessed with Amon to the point where it is clouding his judgment. Obviously so, for it has now produced the tragedy we face today.

  I have seen many sorrows in my time: behind the public masks we wear, things do not always move so happily for the kings and queens of Kemet. They have not moved so for me. Six children stillborn, four dead in infancy, my husband gone early, my sole surviving child come to the throne a boy of ten amidst intrigues that only my strong will put down. It has not been easy. No wonder I am old before my time. But, like all the women of our family, I am strong—strong. Were it not so, things would have gone hard with the House of Thebes.

  My grandson Tuthmose, that dear, laughing little boy! Hapi, god of the Nile, has taken him. And Amon-Ra, enraged by my son and Tiye, has been the instrument to put him into Hapi’s hands. Hapi can be kind and Hapi can be cruel. Today Hapi has been cruel; for he is a friend of Amon, and perhaps is enraged at the way my son has treated Amon.

  My nephew Aye came to me as I was about to enter my barge for the return to Malkata. Something in his desperate face made me step aside as he beckoned me to do. My nephew is a staid and solid man, conservative in all things: when Aye is agitated, there is reason. And so he told me, with much bitterness against his brother, my nephew Aanen. And he told me what he and that other wise man, Amonhotep the Scribe, Son of Hapu, had done to keep the news away from the people until Pharaoh and the Great Wife could be told. And he told me I must be the one to tell them, for my son could not take vengeance on me for bringing the news, and only I could soothe and help them through the agony.

  All of this was true, and so I thanked Aye and said I would do it. But I told him I needed help, and so he stands beside me now, my hand upon his arm as the barge moves out into the current, steadying me as he always steadies the House of Thebes. He is a good man, my nephew, and we will see this sad task through together for the sake of Kemet, whose order and safety must be preserved.

  We turn into the downflowing current, the oarsmen grunt and strain, for a second we veer sharply. Both Aye and I almost lose our balance: Hapi is still angry for his friend Amon. But then he relents, the barge rights itself and takes the river smoothly; we begin the slow progress upstream to the Palace. On both banks, as warmly as before, the people roar their adoration. Why cannot our feet be more certain when they stand upon such love?

  I have discussed this subject many times with my principal friend abroad, King Shu-ttarna of Mittani, father of our dour Gilukhipa. He has not answered my letters in recent years—I am not too sure my son is sending them to him, though I do not know why, for I do not interfere in statecraft, only attempt to make sure that all is attended to, and that relations remain good between us—but when he did, he confessed to being as baffled as I. Once, in an apparent fit of melancholy, he asked me: “What is love? Particularly when it comes from the people? How can they possibly love us, who are so high above them?” I wrote back, I am afraid somewhat tartly: “Love is what keeps us on our thrones, and without it we fall. So do not ask what it is. It is there. Be thankful we have it, otherwise there would be a great tumbling in Kemet and Mittani.” He did not respond for quite some time after that, but he deserved my sharpness. “What is love?” indeed! If one has to ask, particularly in relation to the people, one might as well not write. They are there—it is there. They go together. At least they do for the House of Thebes, and as long as they do, we need not worry for our throne, however much may happen to disturb us.

  Eh, well. Those were pleasant days, of correspondence and philosophy. Things are grimmer now.

  We move steadily on upstream. The wave of love washes us along, mingled now with the happy excitement of my niece’s successful delivery. She has a son—one son, poor girl. It is well that she too is strong, for strength will be needed when I reach the Palace.

  We swing right into the channel, see the Palace dock ahead. Sitamon and Gilukhipa are just landing. Sitamon, relieved of the burden of ceremony, dances off the barge with a little girl’s abandon, laughing and merry. The crowds give her an extra roar, and even Gilukhipa smiles and appears more relaxed. Sitamon does this to people. Later on tonight, when her parents are clutching one another in the grip of sorrow, her sunny nature will be of much help to them.

  My barge touches wood, I step ashore, still on Aye’s arm; with instinctive agreement we tur
n and I bow low to the people, first to the right, then to the left; raise my right arm in salute; and, for the first time, smile. The sound of affection outdoes itself as we turn and start walking slowly along the broad, stone-flagged approach to the Palace, between the rows of gently swaying palm trees and the soldiers standing on perpetual guard.

  Hardly aware I am doing it, I utter a long-drawn, heavy sigh as we near the massive gate to the compound; and gently Aye, always perceptive, always understanding, says, “Be of good cheer, Aunt. Your Majesty can do nobly and well the difficult task that lies before her.”

  “Can I?” I ask quizzically. “I am only an old, frail woman.”

  “Not old,” he says, “and not frail. I am beside you. Come.”

  And still gently, but firmly, he leads me in, past the bowing nobles and the humble slaves and the doctors and nurses and somber, white-robed priests of Amon, until we come to the door of my niece’s room. It is guarded by two tall priests of Amon who will not, I wager, be standing there in another ten minutes. They will, in fact, be lucky to be alive. Their last task on earth, in fact, may be to open the way for me, who may possibly carry their deaths along with my news. It is an ironic thought, and grim, and I see it in Aye’s eyes too as we exchange glances at the threshold.

  Grandly the doors are flung open, grandly the older priest announces, “Her Majesty the Queen Mother, She Who Is Gracious and Shining in the Eyes of Amon!” And grandly I go in, Aye releasing me and stepping back a pace as the doors close behind us.

  Startled, my son and my niece look up. He is seated on the bed, holding both her hands, worship, infinite love and happiness in his face. In a cradle before them squirms and squalls the newborn god.

  We bow low and come near. I stoop first to kiss the Great Wife on a cheek still wet and fevered from her labor, then kiss Pharaoh, and then turn for an instant to smile down upon their new and only son. Aye gravely does the same, then takes my arm with a strengthening grip. Something in the action gives us away. Both Pharaoh and the Great Wife turn pale.

  “What is it?” Pharaoh demands in a tight, constricted voice; and somehow, steadied by Aye’s blessed grip upon my arm, which does not shake or falter but sustains me word by word, I manage to tell them.

  After I have finished there is a dreadful quiet, broken only by the occasional tiny mewlings of the new god in his cradle.

  Then suddenly my son gives a terrible howl, Tiye a ghastly shriek. He buries his face in her breast, she cradles it in her arms, her head falls forward to rest alongside his as they rock in agony together. Outside there is the sound of startled voices, people running, exclamations, worried cries, a growing tumult.

  “What is it?” someone shouts, pounding on the door; and presently my son lifts a ravaged face that stares at me without seeing. Then with a terrible, deliberate slowness, he rises and crosses the room to the chair upon which he has laid his razor-sharp, jeweled ceremonial sword.

  “No!” Aye and I cry together, and Tiye, grief suddenly giving way to horror as she watches, echoes frantically, “No!”

  But he is beyond listening as he goes softly to the door and cries out, in a harsh, commanding voice:

  “Enter, O priests of Amon standing guard at the Great Wife’s door!”

  And obediently the doors swing open and they come in, side by side. And with what appears to be a single stroke, so swiftly and with such frightful vigor is it administered, the sword flashes like a snake in the light; a cry of horror goes up from the crowding watchers outside; and bumping and slithering across the reeds upon the floor, two bloody balls that once were heads bounce along until they come to rest, still twitching, at the farther wall.

  “Take them away and clean up this mess!” he shouts in the same strident voice. And in ten minutes’ time, while Tiye, Aye and I watch in horror and outside the trembling crowd shrinks back, slaves have entered and done their work, the bodies are gone, the heads bundled away, whitewash has been splashed on the bloodied walls, new sand and reeds cover the floor. The doors are closed. All is neat and orderly as before.

  And again the room falls silent, and again the only sound is the tiny, fitful caterwauling of the newborn god.

  Presently Tiye, her face still a mask of desolation but nature coming fast to her rescue, reaches down toward the child; and Pharaoh, coming gradually back to his senses, reaches down with equal tenderness, lifts him up and hands him to his mother. Tiye begins to nurse him and softly, gently, begins to cry, her tears falling unchecked on his pink, unknowing, oddly elongated little skull as he busily sucks. And so at last Pharaoh cries, too, and I cry, and Aye also; and for a few minutes we weep fiercely together, yet with a family tenderness that is somehow greatly strengthening. And so a semblance of peace returns.

  But it is elusive, as we learn when my son finally speaks.

  “I will have his temples,” he says in a voice so soft it is almost crooning. “I will have his jewels and his gold, his cattle, his granaries, his farms, and fertile lands. I will have his statue, which is richer than mine. I will melt it down. I will chisel out his name in all its places. I will drive him from the land of Kemet, and his memory shall be an execration, forever and ever and ever, for millions of millions of years. Go you, Aye, and tell Ramose I wish him here to carry out my order. Rouse up the army, prepare the generals, make ready all things. Amon is dead in Kemet, though he knows it not. Go, before he rallies. Go!”

  And never have I admired my nephew Aye more, and never have I quite understood the infinite integrity and courage of his character as I understand it now: for quietly and simply, without bravado, dramatics, unnecessary emphasis or fear, he replies gently:

  “No, Son of the Sun, I will not go. Nor will I let you perpetrate such madness.”

  Instantly Pharaoh is on his feet, his eyes wild again with rage. He starts for the sword, Tiye and I scream out our protests.

  The sword lifts high but Aye does not move. Calm and unflinching he stares with a patient acquiescence, a curious innocence, into the eyes of Pharaoh; and it is an innocence that defeats him, for after a moment of terrible tension he suddenly flings the sword across the room and, dropping his head in his arms and wrapping them so tightly across his eyes that it is as though he is trying to obliterate the world, he bursts into great, wracking sobs that shudder through his body from some infinite well of despair that has no bottom.

  And so we are again quiet for a time, until the storm is over.

  At last it is. He lowers his arms, looks at us all from devastated eyes; steps forward and embraces Aye, kissing him on both cheeks; kisses me; returns slowly to Tiye and the child, still suckling peacefully; kisses them both; and presently asks, in a voice which, praise Amon—or whatever god may be guarding our House at this dread moment—is shaky but normal again,

  “What, then, shall I do?”

  Aye looks gravely at me, defers, and waits. My thoughts cease whirling, concentrate, coalesce.

  “My son,” I say, “the first thing—the very first—is to send an immediate offering to Amon in penance for the slaying of his priests. It must be generous and unstinting, and with it must go your humble apologies. Blame it on a sudden fit, a mad sickness, anything—but do not admit the real reason, and do not be hostile. That way you will appease the priests and lull them until you can find another day.”

  At this his expression, which had begun to turn stubborn as I spoke, becomes relaxed again.

  “Then you think there will be another day? You approve, that there should be?”

  “There must,” I say firmly, and Aye and Tiye both echo with equal certainty: “There must.”

  “But you must wait,” Aye says. “You must be careful. This time you underestimated Amon. You must never do so again.”

  “It has cost me a son,” he says with a dreadful bitterness. “I have learned my lesson.”

  “And I mine,” Tiye says; and abruptly, as the full realization of what has happened strikes her anew, she begins to weep again. Pharaoh holds he
r tightly, murmurs broken, muffled, soothing words. Aye and I exchange glances, I nod: it is time to go.

  “Majesty,” Aye says quietly, “do not give up. You are right about Amon. He must be controlled. But indirectly—cleverly—shrewdly … I shall send the offering to the temple at once.”

  “Gold,” he says, not lifting his head from Tiye’s. “He loves gold. Not too little—not too much. I shall trust you to decide.”

  “It will be done,” Aye says. “I shall see Your Majesties tomorrow, or when you need me.”

  “Thank you,” he says. He leaves Tiye for a moment, embraces us both again.

  “Mother,” he says defiantly, “our House will survive.”

  “I have never doubted it, my son,” I say. “But carefully—carefully.”

  “Yes,” he says, and from the bed Tiye, her expression suddenly determined through her sorrow, nods firm agreement as we go.

  Outside the door we find two soldiers now on guard, others standing rigid at attention all down the corridors. Priests of Amon are nowhere to be seen.

  “The offering cannot arrive too soon,” I say, and Aye nods grimly. He claps his hands. An aide to Ramose appears from a room down the hall. Before he can start forward, a woman whom I recognize to be from Aye’s house comes hurrying in. She is crying, and instinctively, now, it is I who place a strengthening hand upon the arm of Aye.

  “Master—” she begins in a breaking voice. “Master—”

  “Hebmet!” he cries sharply, and dumbly she nods.

  “But, master,” she says through her tears, “you still have a daughter—a beautiful girl—”

  “Hebmet!” he cries again, and it is the only time I have ever heard, or ever expect to hear, such naked emotion in the voice of my nephew Aye.

  For a moment all is still in the hall. The woman withdraws, weeping; the soldiers stand sympathetic but not daring to be other than rigid and unmoving; the scribe hesitates.

  Slowly my nephew lifts his head and speaks to the scribe in a voice husky but firm.