by Allen Drury
And abruptly I began to giggle—quite hysterically at first, I must admit, but in a moment with a sure, deep, genuine amusement that presently had me clutching my sides and, I am afraid, sloshing the wine about a bit, spattering the floor and the single flimsy thickness of cotton which at that moment was all that stood between me and a possible heir to the throne of Kemet.
For a very long moment Pharaoh simply stared at me as if he could not believe his ears. Anger, shock, bafflement, uncertainty crossed the face that was already turning a little soft, a little heavy. First he flushed, then he paled, then he flushed again. Meanwhile, I was pleased to note, the resemblance to Min could not maintain itself, the shock was too great for it, too: it crumpled away and slunk between his legs. And then suddenly, mercifully, he also began to laugh, as genuinely and completely as I. In a moment we were crowing together like two fools, and I knew Kaires and I had won, though it was many years before I told Kaires of the battle.
“Daughter,” he said finally, wiping his eyes on the bed sheet that he had pulled over himself in the midst of our hilarity, “you are one worthy of your mother. Return to your ladies, sleep well. And as you go, send in one of the house servants. I really do want some wine!”
And he opened his arms to me with an entirely honest affection, I leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, he patted me smartly but impersonally on the rump, gave me a shove and a heartily amused “Be off with you!”
And that was how the Queen-Princess Sitamon saved herself for her true love and did not bear a possible heir to the throne of Kemet
He never attempted it again, of course; but for years after that I felt every time Kaires and I were together that we were very probably risking death should Pharaoh find out. However, I think in recent years he and my mother have come to suspect, and have even cooperated. It has become much easier, I have noted, particularly since my brother became Co-Regent, for me to slip away from the Palace to meet Kaires in Gilukhipa’s rooms, in the rushes along the Nile, among the sand dunes, or wherever else the gods have seen fit to permit our happiness. Our love has not been easy, neither has it been really difficult; and as such things go, I suppose we have known a reasonable content, even though we should have liked to marry and give a happy life to the two sons and a daughter I have been forced to dispose of while they were yet unborn.
My parents, as I say, have silently cooperated; yet I think the cooperation has been greater since my brother ascended the joint throne. The young Pharaoh believes as firmly as the old that people should lead lives of happiness and pleasure, but he extends it beyond the Palace or his own bedroom. He seems to regard almost all men with a certain generosity, possibly because he survived his illness as he did. He wants them to be happy. If, sometimes, this seems to mean happy on his terms, that is just something one must learn to live with when dealing with a Pharaoh—certainly when dealing with this one, who is a most imperious and determined man.
I think, in fact, that even my parents are becoming a little alarmed, now, about my brother. They have perhaps instructed him too well in his defiance of Amon: He has perhaps truly slipped out of their fingers and into the multiple hands of the Aten. Our mother, who has secretly prided herself for years that she really governs the country behind the facade offered by our father with his erratically declining health, is not so sure, now. Temporarily, at least, she seems to have lost even her usual close communion with my uncle Aye, who appears to have joined my brother in worship of the Aten. She was not consulted about Gebel Silsila, she was not notified that a huge new temple to the Aten was to be built at Karnak, she was not told of the startling changes in the Aten’s titles that he announced ten days ago before we left Thebes. Nor does she know, any more than I or anyone—saving, always, Nefertiti—the purpose of this progress down the river, or why we have encamped on the edge of this great empty plain in a bend of the low-lying eastern cliffs.
She stood at the rail as we approached it and said only, “I recognize this place.” And although of course she has passed it many times over the years on their journeys up and down to our northern capital at Memphis, I realized she meant “recognize” in a deeper sense. For this is the place where he had his greatest welcome when he first resumed his appearances before the people after his illness. Her tone sounded troubled and sad, for she does not know what he proposes to do here tomorrow—and secretly, I think, she fears it.
Because he does propose to do something here tomorrow: he has announced nothing, but there is too much of a pattern. The announcements and ceremonies of the recent days—the apparently abrupt but, I suspect, long-planned decision to bring the entire Court north down the river to this desolate emptiness forsaken by gods and men alike—the carefully suppressed but palpable excitement which neither he nor Nefertiti can quite conceal, for all their determination to appear impassive … something is to happen.
Another temple to the Aten, in this desolate place? The entire Court forced to perform rituals to his new god, on this barren ground? Some new assault upon Amon, already horrified, affronted and angry enough?
He will not tell us and indeed none of us, including the Great Wife, has quite had the audacity to press for the reason. But it is in the air, we all feel it: tomorrow, something momentous happens.
When he and Nefertiti came to us for the second time, earlier this evening, we were eating. They arrived virtually without ceremony, accompanied only by Kaires, who bowed low to my parents, smiled quickly at me and withdrew discreetly to the corner from which he never hesitates to speak up, respectfully but firmly, whenever his opinion is sought, which is often. He is virtually a part of our family after all these years: that we two should be forced to be clandestine is so ridiculous and frustrating that it is sometimes almost impossible not to cry out in disgust and anger and demand that it be rectified. But of course this can never be as long as Pharaoh lives; and even then I do not know whether it could be. My brother might wish to marry me were I still of childbearing age. So far he has only daughters, and these are not enough to secure the throne for his own line, though Smenkhkara, beautiful and somewhat fragile-appearing but basically healthy, stands ready to carry on the direct descent if anything should happen to both our father and brother.
Tonight, in fact, it was Smenkhkara who spoke up first, as boys of ten are sometimes wont to do.
“Why have you brought us here, Nefer-Kheperu-Ra?” he demanded, suspending his attack on a roast duck’s leg long enough to stare up at the Co-Regent with his customary adoring but insistent look. “It seems a most dismal place to me.”
“Does it indeed, monkey?” our brother said, tugging Smenkhkara’s sidelock of youth with the special patient affection he has always shown him. “Perhaps that is a secret only the gods will reveal.”
“Which god?” Smenkhkara inquired, laying aside the duck’s leg and beginning to look really interested, as were we all. “Amon, or your friend Spider-Legs?”
So swiftly that we could hardly see the motion, our brother struck him across the face with the back of his hand, toppling him from his seat not so much by the force of the blow as by the sheer surprise of it. But even as Smenkhkara stared up ludicrously from the floor, his face contorted with amazement and the beginnings of tears, the Co-Regent fell awkwardly to his knees, his grotesque, ungainly body enveloping the boy’s, holding him tenderly, rocking him gently and protectively as though he were one of his own daughters.
“I am sorry, little brother,” he said, his voice croaking with emotion. “But you must never speak of the Aten in such a fashion again.”
“No, Majesty,” Smenkhkara said, his voice shaking on the edge of tears. “Oh, no, Majesty, I will never—never—”
And then he did begin to cry, more than anything else with fright and disbelief that the older brother he so obviously adores, and who so obviously adores him, should, under some strange compulsion not understood by any of us, have reacted so sharply to what had begun as an innocent child’s jest about the new god.
>
I doubt if anyone in his life had ever struck my little brother—certainly never the Pharaoh Amonhotep IV (life, health, prosperity!).
Never.
For some moments we were all silent while he hoisted himself awkwardly to his feet again, our faces showing varying degrees of consternation, puzzlement and fear. Only Nefertiti, though paler, remained as calm and composed as ever. I had a glimpse into that marriage for a second: she has obviously become used to such storms. But she never wavers in her love and support for him.
Never.
Presently Pharaoh, our father, broke the silence.
“Here,” he said heavily, thrusting the forgotten duck’s leg toward Smenkhkara. “Take this, stop crying, be a man. Your brother has apologized, you have apologized. He will not do it again, you will not do it again. It is settled. I must say, however”—and he turned to stare full face at our brother—“that your conduct puzzles all of us, my son. Why are you so tense? What are we doing here? Why have we come? What is it you propose? Why are we, your family, not worthy to be taken into your confidence?”
“Tomorrow,” my brother said.
“Why not tonight?” Pharaoh demanded.
“Tomorrow!” my brother repeated sharply, his high voice again acquiring the heavy thickness it always succumbs to under stress.
Again there was silence while we all stared at him. Quietly and naturally, a gesture apparently so accustomed that it was accomplished with such ease and dignity that we were almost unaware of it, Nefertiti glided to his side and placed a hand on his arm.
“Son of the Sun,” she said softly, addressing our father, “you must forgive Nefer-Kheperu-Ra. It has been a long journey, he is tired—”
“We are all tired,” the Great Wife interrupted bluntly. “That does not excuse an exhibition as unbecoming as this. I think you are in danger of becoming besotted with the Aten, my son. A Pharaoh must have stronger nerves and broader vision than that.”
Again there was silence while some inner struggle apparently went on within my brother. Finally he responded, his voice still threatened with emotion, but calmer as Nefertiti’s tiny hand maintained its steady grip upon his arm.
“Do not underestimate my nerves, Mother,” he said. “And do not underestimate my vision. And above all, do not underestimate my devotion to the Aten. It is not besotted: it is real. Have I not proved this already in several ways?”
“Too many, I sometimes think,” Queen Tiye replied, and for a moment it seemed he would again explode into anger. But Nefertiti, never relaxing her grip, added to it a gentle but firm stroking motion of her fingers that seemed to recall him to himself.
“I am sorry,” he said presently, in a tone that told us the storm was probably over. “I am tired, tomorrow will be a most important day, and we must all have our rest. Kaires, I would like you to be sure all the soldiers are ready, for I have sent out many messengers”—we all exchanged startled glances, for we had not known this—“and I expect many, many thousands here to witness us as we perform our ceremonies. Order must be maintained, though I think they love us and would not willingly do harm except in the exuberance of the moment.”
“Yes, Son of the Sun,” Kaires said soberly, his own tone revealing how disturbed he had been made by the scene we had just witnessed. “All shall be done as you wish.”
“Good,” my brother said. He turned formally to our parents.
“Son of the Sun and Great Wife,” he said, “I cannot command you to attend me tomorrow, but it would please me greatly if I had you by my side. Will you do so?”
“We have always been by your side,” our mother said in a voice filled suddenly with a sadness she made no attempt to hide. “But why will you not tell us, so that we may know what to expect?”
“Because I do not wish it!” he said, sharpness abruptly returning, Nefertiti’s firm little hand once more busy on his arm. More quietly he concluded. “All will be clear tomorrow—you will see. It will not harm Kemet or hurt our House. It will be wonderful for everyone. You will see. Trust me.”
“Evidently we must,” Pharaoh said, his voice, too, sounding sad and tired.
“And happily, Father,” my brother said. “Happily, for it will be a happy day for the whole world, forever and ever.”
“I pray so, my son,” Pharaoh said, unmoved. “By your god and all the gods, I pray so.”
“Pray to my god only,” my brother suggested with a sudden smile that for once was completely open and genuine, full of a serenity that in some curious fashion both reassured and frightened us, “for he knows, is, and will be, all things.”
“We do not understand you, Nefer-Kheperu-Ra,” our mother said, “but we will be there.”
“Good!” he said. Nefertiti relaxed her grip, his face softened, he reached down to Smenkhkara, seated again on his stool, his lithe young body still trembling a little, his duck leg cold and forgotten in his hand.
“Little brother,” he said, “forgive me. Tomorrow after the ceremonies you and Sitamon will join your cousin Nefertiti and me in our chariot and we will ride the length and breadth of this great plain. We will ride and ride and ride!”
“Like the wind?” Smenkhkara asked, his voice still uncertain, but beginning to smile a little in excitement and anticipation.
“Like the wind!” the Co-Regent promised, once again giving Smenkhkara’s sidelock an affectionate tug. “And all our people will cheer and cheer and cheer us with their love and their devotion, and they, and we, and our House, and Kemet, and the Aten will all be happy forever and ever, for millions and millions of years!”
“May I hold the reins sometimes?” Smenkhkara asked eagerly. And finally we all did relax and join in the laughter as our brother repeated, with a fond amusement in his eyes, “Forever and ever, for millions and millions of years!”
And so it ended, the strange little episode, and so I wonder, as do we all in this troubled night, what it all meant and what it portends for tomorrow.
The last purple light has faded from the hills, the last trace of bronze has melted from the river. Ra has begun his journey through the underworld. Nut now commands the night.
Somewhere in the rushes the god Thoth’s surrogate, the graceful ibis, calls once, sharply, to its mate. But the call does not fool me.
It is not Thoth but Kaires who comes; and presently, after we have had our happiness, we will discuss the strange doings of my strange brother, for I know my love is as puzzled, and as disturbed, as I.
***
Bek
I am the apprentice of His Majesty, I have been taught by the King: sculptor am I to Amonhotep IV (life, health, prosperity!), as my father, Men, is sculptor to his father, Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!).
Here in Kemet, court offices have a way of passing from father to son. But I think my father has not been called upon to do such things as I.
Such wonders as this One demands, and such wonders have I created for him! Fifteen temples to the Aten in five years, the greatest of them in Karnak, where we have almost completed the huge structure, far ahead of the leisurely pace with which my father is completing the Good God’s temple to Amon. In both cases we move at the pace ordained by our masters: the young Pharaoh is more impatient to pay tribute to his new god than the old Pharaoh is to pay tribute to his old one. There may be reasons here which I, a mere servant of my lord, do not understand. But I do know this: great haste attends most things upon which Amonhotep IV (life, health, prosperity!) embarks. And most hasty of all, and most secret, have been the projects undertaken on the boundaries of this barren plain.
Tonight I stand in carefully hooded torchlight, before the second of them, watching closely as my little band of workmen—three only, pledged to utmost secrecy, promised the greatest rewards if they maintain it, threatened with certain death if they should violate it—put the final touches to the polished stone. They have kept the trust: no word has escaped. Very shortly now all will be in readiness for the ceremonies tomorrow. Once
more the concealing cloths will be put back in place, the hiding sand will be shoveled over, we shall depart as silently and secretly as we have come. There will be just one difference this time: when the cloths are replaced, we will attach draw-ropes to them, their other ends cleverly hidden in the sand in the exact places the young Pharaoh has commanded. Thus will he be able to pull them away at the exact moment he wishes, revealing all to the multitudes who are expected tomorrow to fill this empty place.
And so will begin the greatest of all the projects with which he has entrusted me. It will be the greatest wonder, as it will be, for him and perhaps for all of Kemet, the most challenging and the most dangerous.
Yet even without this, he has done great wonders, such things as no other Pharaoh in history has done. Early in his reign, indeed at the moment he took me with him to open the new quarries and inscribe the commemorative stone at Gebel Silsila, he attached to his titles the words “Living in Truth”; and in this spirit he has commanded me to show him and his family ever since.
At first I was hesitant to do such things as no other sculptor in our history has done. Was I indeed to portray that grotesque, exaggerated, potbellied body as it actually is? Was I to show the Chief Wife swollen with childbearing? Was I to portray them naked, with all the details of their sacred bodies bare to public view, as few if any Good Gods and Chief Wives have ever been portrayed in all of recorded time?
But, “Yes!” he said: “Yes! I command you, Bek, and you are not to be afraid. After all”—and into his eyes there came that hurt, hidden look that I soon came to know so well, and which I am going to try to capture in the new colossi he has just commanded me to sculpt at Karnak—“after all, it is not the artist they will marvel at when they see your work. It is the man they know has ordered you to portray him in this fashion. They see me as I am when I go among them, and their eyes tell them I am different. You must put it in stone so that it will last forever and ever. You must put it in stone so that they will never forget it, so that it will confront them in every place and be with them night and day. When they think of me they must think: He is different. And before them they must always have the proof, because then they will marvel, they will respect, they will be proud of, and adore, my difference. They will fear”—his voice dropped suddenly to a thoughtful low and he concluded very quietly but with tremendous force—“and they will obey.”
