A God Against the Gods

by Allen Drury

  What does he see out there, my stranger, unhappy, touching nephew? What “wonders” will he conjure up from those eternal dunes and gullies, so utterly barren of life? Who speaks to him, out there in that eternal silence?

  He hears a Voice we do not hear, sees a Vision we cannot see. And he believes. This I know. He sincerely and completely believes.

  I look out upon that empty plain and I say to Whomever or Whatever it is that has brought him here: “Be good to him. Be good to us. He believes he is doing what is right, he believes he is living in truth. Help him, and help us.”

  No answer comes. I shiver and drop the tent flap, turn back to my pallet and cushions on the ground.

  I should like to sleep.

  But I do not think I will.

  ***

  Nefertiti

  An hour ago he slipped away, his unmistakable form disguised in a loose-flowing, simple white linen gown such as minor officials sometimes wear. I think he would have gone naked, as we all do sometimes in Kemet, in the Palace and even in the streets, in the dreadful heat of summer, were it not that his body is too familiar, now, to any who might surprise him. I do not think any will, out on the plain where soon he will perform his wonders. It is a brave man who would venture upon that desolate expanse at this time of night; and no man, not even the young Pharaoh, would go alone.

  He did not take me with him. For the first time since our marriage that I can remember, we are apart. Only Kaires attends him, and this, as he explained to me, solely for protection if they should be surprised. Yet of course he is his own protection: no man would dare touch Pharaoh. I think he fears—what? I do not know. I do not think he knows. But he does not want me exposed to it, if it should be there. He wanted a man beside him, and Kaires, brave and solid—and still, as we call him sentimentally, our “big brother”—was the logical choice.

  So after the Court was asleep, they slipped away. Kaires had arranged earlier that two horses be tethered perhaps a half mile out upon the plain. I do not know his excuse, but he is now Chief Scribe and Commander of the Horse of Amonhotep IV (life, health, prosperity!), and no one questions. Sometime shortly before 3 A.M., when all the camp was silent and sleeping at last, there came the tiniest scratching on the golden tent where its folds loop low above our heads. Instantly my husband turned to me, kissed me, rose from our golden bed and began to struggle to pull the linen garment over his head. His arms became caught, he thrashed about awkwardly: I do not believe he had ever worn such a thing in his life. I got up immediately and helped him; together, after some further tugging and pulling, we managed. He looked at me and we almost laughed aloud for a moment at the spectacle he made: the god enfolded in the commoner’s garb. Then amusement fled, a somber, almost frightening expression came into his eyes.

  “Wish me well, beloved wife,” he whispered.

  “In all things, beloved husband,” I whispered back.

  Again we kissed, a strange desperation in it now; he lifted the tent fold from its peg beside our bed, ducked awkwardly under and disappeared. I heard one quick sibilant whisper of greeting; then all was still again; and now they are somewhere on the desolate plain.

  Desolate now: but at noon when Ra stands straight above it will be desolate no longer. Then all our dreaming and planning will come true. And desolation will be gone from the plain, from Kemet, and from the hearts of men, forever and ever, for millions and millions of years.

  This do I believe. This does he believe. Together we will make it come to pass.

  Then all who oppose and question us now will realize that from the beginning we have been concerned only with their welfare and happiness. And all doubts will vanish and they will see that the Pharaoh Amonhotep IV (life, health, prosperity!) is the greatest god who ever lived.

  So do I see him, I, Nefertiti, who have been his Chief Wife for five years, his friend, companion and principal supporter for twenty. And I do not say this to detract from such other great gods as Menes, My-cer-i-nus, Amose I, Tuthmose III, Hatshepsut or any of them (life, health, prosperity to them all!). It is simply that my husband is greater than them all. His name will lead all others. This do I believe.

  I am aware that there is much whispering in the Court about our marriage, as there is much opposition in the country to our policies. My cousin Sitamon is convinced, I am sure, that the Co-Regent probably has fits of temper in which he beats me. Pharaoh and the Great Wife wonder how I maintain my serenity in the face of what is, I must admit, a very stubborn nature. My father, Kaires, Gilukhipa, Queen Mutemwiya, Amonhotep, Son of Hapu—I know they all have questions and conjectures. But I give them nothing. They will never have from my expression, my words or my actions any answers to their questions, any food for their conjectures.

  For I, too, am stubborn, if they know it not; and I, too, have pride. And my life is dedicated to my husband’s, which should not surprise them, for it was their idea.

  Knowing him so well, and having lived through his illness with him as intimately as I did, I was aware after it passed that it had left him with great tensions inside that now and again must find release. But never has he struck me, never has he raised his voice in anger against me—never. His angers and impatience have always been directed against others. They should be thankful to me, not critical or gossiping, because far more often than they know it has been I who have soothed his anger, diverted his impatience, directed the tension toward harmless things upon which it could expend itself without doing hurt to anyone or anything. It is I who have made it possible for him to maintain his public calm many times when without me he would have given way to fury.

  I look in my mirror when my faithful Anser-Wossett, still my principal lady in waiting though I know she does not approve of the Aten, brings it to me in the morning. I no longer see the girl I used to see: the youthful plumpness of face has thinned away, the cheekbones are finer and more pronounced, the mouth is mature and thoughtful, the eyes gaze forth upon the world with a steady, understanding and compassionate glance. The girl is gone: a beautiful woman has truly come, at last.

  Life has made me ever more striking than I was: and life, as it does, has exacted its own price therefor.

  I find, now, that I rarely laugh any more. I find that I am given more to moods, that I am apt to fall into thoughtful silences, that I move less quickly and erratically, at a slower and more stately pace. I find that I no longer have to work at being Queen of the Two Lands: I am Queen of the Two Lands—and I am even more. For the Aten has placed in my hands responsibility for my husband’s life and stability, as it has placed in his hands responsibility for the life and stability of the Two Lands; and in such a circumstance Kemet is most fortunate that I have matured as rapidly as I have.

  At first it was almost play, with us. We would build temples to the Aten, we would shock Amon and particularly our tiresome uncle Aanen, we would break with the old traditions of lifeless art that have always surrounded Pharaoh and his family, we would launch a new naturalism, we would go naked about the Palace and even in the streets, we would show ourselves to the people exactly as we are, we would live in truth. But living in truth is not an easy thing, and for it we have had to pay in gossip, criticism and concern.

  And for each of our tributes to the Aten we have had to pay in growing animosity from Amon. And within the Family we have had to meet and overcome a usually suppressed but steadily growing resistance that has not quite dared challenge us openly but has nonetheless been a silent—and sometimes not so silent—reproach.

  All this has dragged upon us: it has clouded the joy with which we have embraced the Aten and embarked upon our course of living in truth. Things that should have been happy have not been happy. Exciting new adventures begun in joy and hopefulness have turned into contests of will and stubborn tenacity. It has, I am afraid, made us harsher; and this, too, life has drawn upon my face, in lines too subtle, perhaps, for most to see, but unmistakable to the one who has studied it in closest detail every day for the bette
r part of her twenty years.

  We have come now, we feel, to something of a crisis. Fifteen temples have been built to the Aten. Our three daughters, Meryt-aten, Meket-aten and Ankh-e-sen-pa-aten have been named for him. The fourth child I am presently carrying (we pray constantly to him that it will be the son we desperately hope for) will be named for him. For him we have entirely abandoned the rituals of Amon.

  Nonetheless, we have done no real harm to Amon with our attentions to the Aten. We have not suborned his priests or robbed his granaries or sacked his temples. And although we live in truth, we have not required it of anyone else, though my husband might easily have done so by simple edict and all of Kemet would have been forced to obey.

  We have harmed no one, we have simply gone our own way: hoping that those of our people who wished to do as we do would find themselves, after many centuries of being bound by tradition and fear, free at last to live as they please and to worship the Aten, who is light and gentle and happy, not dark and heavy and threatening like Amon.

  It has not come about.

  But still we have had to take the criticism for it, and fight battles nonetheless real for being mostly in the hearts of our family and our people.

  And so we have decided on the course that my husband will announce at noon when Ra stands overhead.

  For me, this is the only logical and practical thing to do. For my husband, it is something more—something which even I, perhaps, cannot understand entirely. I support it because I am logical, because I see its inevitability—and because I love him and believe in him.

  He has deeper reasons, I think, which he has tried to explain to me but which I do not really grasp. He moves, I think, on a higher, more mystical level, though I follow him as best I can. Sometimes even I do not know what goes on behind that closed, defensive face. But I love, I believe and I follow.

  Now he is far off somewhere on the plain with Kaires—sound, steady, solid Kaires, who understands no dreams or mystical things, only practical realities.

  I wonder if my husband is even now explaining to him, as he has to me, what he has in mind and how he thinks? If so, I know Kaires, and he will never understand, though my husband talk for hours.

  Or are they standing in silence while my husband dreams of what tomorrow will bring and Kaires waits, patiently—as he is always patient (and careful)—until his master decides to come home?

  Rather more likely the latter, I think: honest Kaires, who has always loved and supported us so well!

  Together my husband and I have made great plans and dreamed great dreams. Some of them we have already made come true. Now the greatest of them all is about to unfold.

  I am happy for him, though he travels, sometimes, into regions where even I, who have worshiped him from a child, cannot completely understand or truly follow.

  ***

  Kaires

  He has left me here in the middle of the plain and gone on east into the shadows of the night. He has left his horse and his garment. Stark naked and utterly alone, he is shuffling slowly and painfully, but with a terrible determination, through the clutching sand toward the eastern hills. Only Nut knows where he is now. In an hour I am to light a torch to guide him back.

  Where does he go, strange Nefer-Kheperu-Ra? What is he after? What does he seek?

  I do not know.

  I am afraid of what will happen at noon when he performs his “wonders.”

  I am afraid for him, for Kemet and for all of us.

  I have come with him thus far upon his strange life’s journey, but I do not know how much farther I can go.

  ***

  Amonhotep IV

  (life, health, prosperity!)

  Behind me I have left beloved Nefertiti, faithful Kaires, my parents, my people, the world and all. I am as I entered the world and utterly alone upon my plain. Only the Aten, though he still travels beneath the earth and has not yet appeared in the eastern sky, knows where I am. He always knows, he always talks to me and guides me. He tells me what to do so that I may grow strong and enduring in his eyes and the eyes of all men for all time, forever and ever, for millions and millions of years. I must have walked, now, in that painful shuffle which I permit very few of my people to see any more, almost a mile from where Kaires patiently waits. It is enough. He cannot see me or hear me and I cannot see or hear him. No sound breaks the hush of this vast expanse I first saw crowded with hundreds of thousands, seven years ago. Now that Khons in his silver boat has vanished down the western sky, no light touches it. Darkness and silence enfold me, unbroken and complete.

  Thus have I desired it, for I must be alone for a little time to think of the god, to worship him, to contemplate what has been and what will be. In this lonely hour I must open my heart to him completely, receive him utterly, so that when he stands high above in the form of Ra at noontime, I may proceed firmly and unafraid to do what I know is right: so that I may live in truth this day as I have never lived in truth before, openly and completely and forever, in all things.

  I have borne with great patience in the years of my co-regency, it seems to me, the things that have been done to me. I have suffered patiently the continuing overbearing presence of Amon; the sometimes rather ridiculous attempts of my father to first weaken, then appease him; the steady erosions of the power of Pharaoh and my House at Amon’s hands; the attempts that have been made to thwart and mock my worship of the Aten, which has not harmed anyone but has only been intended to free my people and return them to what should be their only true worship, the worship of the Aten and of the Good God, myself, who is the Aten’s only emissary and sole prophet upon earth.

  Always the Aten has told me to be patient, to be gentle, to be tolerant—and to be firm. He has told me to build my temples to him, to pursue my plans for his enthronement, to live in truth and to proceed with my own anointing as the intermediary between himself and my people. And he has told me what my parents told me when they told me of Amon’s murder of my brother Tuthmose V: if you find yourself forced to act against someone or something who is obstructing the truth in which you live, wait—prepare—choose your moment—and then, if you must, strike.

  This, with the Aten’s help, I plan to do; yet even now, though it will cause much consternation, I do not think I shall do Amon any really dreadful harm. Certainly it will not be half so dreadful as the wails of my bothersome uncle Aanen and his swarming white-robes will have the world believe.

  I think, however, that he and they would do well to accept and not complain too much.

  It will be better so.

  In the Aten, and in living in truth, I have found such happiness as I expect to find while I, a god, live among men. Much of the happiness of ordinary men—above all, the simple happiness of being left alone—has been denied me by my station; even more has it been denied me by the effects of my illness, which used to make me a thing of wonder and mockery but now make me a thing of wonder and awe. For that I thank the Aten, who has taught me that life should not be dark and threatening, as it is with Amon, but should be free, open and happy; who has taught me that only by living in truth can one—even such a One as I, born to godhood—be truly free; that only by living in truth can one—even such a One as I, whom the gods have wantonly abused—rise above fear, rise above hurt, rise above caring … or, at least, caring quite so much.…

  No longer, since I have come to believe so completely in the Aten, do I find that I shrink inwardly from public view in spite of my brave outward appearance. No longer do I cringe from some of the thoughts I know must be in the minds of those who see me. No longer do I hesitate to make my wishes known as emphatically and naturally as any normal Pharaoh would … or at least, no longer all of these—quite so much.…

  Long ago I told Nefertiti, as I have since told others, that I would deliberately make of my malformation an instrument of awe, of superstition, of fear and of power—and I have done so. But for quite a long time, until the Aten came to my aid and shared his strength with
me, I did it with an inner defiance and hurt so terrible that many times I did not think I could continue. I began to live in truth, openly—and often, quite literally, nakedly—to make of my monstrosity a fact of life in Kemet so overwhelming as to be completely inescapable. But I did these things without ever being quite convinced in my heart that what I was doing was right.

  Then I began to understand the Aten and believe in him. He comforted and confirmed me in all things. He told me I was right. He drove fear and pain from my heart … as much as it can be driven.

  Do you wonder that I glorify him?

  Yet I have not attacked Amon. I have preferred to live in truth in a more positive way in my adoration of the Aten. I have built his temples to be light, open, airy—and small, with the exception of the two large ones at Memphis and Karnak, sites that demand enormity. I have named our daughters, as I shall name our sons, for him. I have lived in truth and have hoped by my example to encourage my people to do the same. And Amon has continued to thrive.

  But he has not been content. Pushed on by my uncle and by many others high in Amon’s hierarchy, restlessness has spread through the temples and the land. Other gods have been enlisted, hostility against me has been roused by Amon with Ptah at Memphis, with Hathor at Dendera, with Bast at Bubastis, with Horus, Hapi, Isis, Thoth and the rest. In the necropolis of Thebes beneath the Peak of the West the priests of Osiris stir and grumble because I have not yet begun my tomb there; and even they are inflamed by Amon.

  Unlike my father, I have decided that Amon cannot be appeased, ever. He will always want more wealth and power. He will never rest in his attempts to undercut and weaken Pharaoh. He will never be content. The arrogance that has caused his priests to refer to him as “the king of the gods” during our Dynasty will never permit him to live in harmony with the greater god whom I have proclaimed.