by Allen Drury
Six daughters are in that house, no sons. The eldest daughter, Merytaten, is ten. In his desperate search for sons, apparently, my nephew took her to bed at nine. A sickly daughter who lived six months resulted. He has not tried again in that fashion, and indeed I believe Merytaten was injured in the delivery to the extent that he will not be able to. But next comes Meketaten, now nine; and although all of this is entirely unknown to Kemet at the moment, my daughter tells me my nephew awaits only the first show of blood to try with her. How long can such things be concealed when he who prides himself on “living in truth” may at any moment abandon the secrecy that so far shrouds the effort?
Meanwhile, he and my daughter continue to appear always together in public, and to maintain the outward show of a warm and united family. And, as much as many families, I suppose they are. What he has done is presumed to be not shocking to our people when it is done by a god, and in our ancient history this is far from the first time such things have happened. But I say with calculation that what he has done “is presumed to be not shocking to our people.” I have gone among the people in disguise many, many times over the years as the eyes and ears of Pharaoh, and I know what the people think. The people do not say anything. We in the palaces take them for granted as a vast, anonymous, obedient mass, and that, amazingly, is what they seem to have been through all our history—never complaining, never questioning, never protesting, never rebelling. But they think. And they watch. And they feel. And whether we admit it to ourselves or not, they pass judgments upon us which never surface, but are always there.
Basically they are extremely conservative. They accept the idea of the Good God bringing forth a child upon the body of his daughter because they have been told from infancy that this is what Good Gods sometimes have to do to preserve the purity of the blood of Ra. But I know them. I have sounded them out, I have tested their peasant prejudices. Far down in their hearts where they really judge us, it makes them uneasy, it strikes them as unnatural to the eternal ma’at of things, and they do not like it.
So when he comes forth, as I suspect he will someday, to announce that he has been “living in truth” with his own daughters, it will not be accepted. It will be held against him, secretly but profoundly. It would not be if he were his father and had his father’s amiable, easygoing, fervently loved popularity. But he is not his father. He is not loved, my poor Akhenaten; and that is one of his many problems.
And now of late, Nefertiti tells me, he is seeking a “son”—or something, it is not yet clear exactly what—somewhere else. Smenkhkara, too beautiful and too graceful in his lithe golden sleekness for his own good, is becoming the intimate of the King. He is only fifteen, but he is surpassingly fair; and he is not averse to it, so my daughter says. He has always worshiped his older brother. Now they are very often together, not in public view, but secretly, in hidden places. So far, she believes, they only talk, about the Aten and about Kemet, much as he talks to me. But she believes, as I do too, that something else may not be far behind.
Why can he not find a soldier, if that is his desire? They are available by the hundreds and even that, though much less common in our history, is not unknown to Pharaohs. Kaires (it will be awhile before I get over calling him that) has told me frankly that when he is absent on campaigns and far from Sitamon he and Ramesses have not hesitated. It comes and goes, is over in an hour, matters nothing. But when Pharaoh turns to his own House, when god lies with god and the destiny of the House of Thebes and the weal of the Two Kingdoms is involved, then it matters much.
We pray, my daughter and I, that the infatuation, which probably at the moment rests more with Smenkhkara than with him, will pass before it can do harm. Soon Smenkhkara will be married to one of the daughters, probably Merytaten, to secure his own succession to the Double Crown if Akhenaten never produces a son. We hope it will be soon, though marriage does not always prove a preventative in such matters.
She worries about these things, my strikingly beautiful, icily composed, iron-willed daughter, and she worries about others as well. Because, for good or ill, she still adores her husband as she has all her life. She worries, as I do too, about the endless drift he seems to live in, and what will happen when, we both think inevitably, it ends.
Lately to both of us he has given indication that this may not be far off. Three weeks ago he called me to his apartments and suggested that we take a chariot ride (another chariot ride!) to his favorite thinking-place, the high ridge that fronts the Northern Tombs and commands the majestic prospect of the city and the plain. I accepted with alacrity, for it had been some time since we had found opportunity to talk, and I thought I might gain some clue to his attitude and purposes. I was not entirely disappointed, though at moments, as usual, he was cryptic and oblique. But I think I gained a little better understanding of his present mood.
“Uncle,” he said when we were seated in the shade of the row of palms he has ordered planted there, “what would you say I have accomplished, as King of the Two Lands?”
I hesitated, which with his customary sensitivity he instantly perceived: one does not say, “Not much,” to the Good God when he asks such a question. But in his case, of course, the unexpected, as usual, happened. It was the Good God himself who answered his own question:
“Not much …”
I made some sort of protesting No-No sound, but he ignored it and stared out for a long brooding moment upon his domain, which I really believe is more truly his kingdom to him than the whole length of Kemet. Then he repeated with a heavy sigh:
“Not much … But I have tried, Uncle—I have tried. You know that, do you not?”
“Yes, Son of the Sun,” I said gravely, “I do know that. I believe your heart has been good and your purposes sincere.”
“Then why have I accomplished so little?” he asked, the long eyes narrowing in pain as they so often do, but not hooded and defensive as they are with most—open and candid with me, whom he trusts. “Why have the people not understood my purposes? Why have they not followed the urgings of my heart? Do they not see that all I want is to make them happy, that all I wish is for their good? My Father Aten and I have only their welfare in our hearts. Why will they not worship us and let us lead them to the wonderful happiness and peace that belief in us can bring to them?”
Again I hesitated, choosing my words with great care, and again he of course perceived it.
“Tell me frankly, Uncle,” he urged; and then added with his customary dryness, “It has been five years since I cut off a head. Yours is safe.”
“You had cause,” I observed tersely; and went on to speak what was in my heart.
“Nefer-Kheperu-Ra,” I said, “no one, I think, can deny to the King the worship of whatever gods or god he may desire. It is impossible to deny him that, as it is impossible to deny him anything. And I think—and I say it honestly to you, Majesty—that you have not been harsh or cruel in your worship, neither have you imposed it upon the people, neither have you demanded that any follow your lead. You have simply offered the Aten as your Father and yourself as his Son, and have invited all who wished to draw near and worship. And some have.”
“But not many,” he said with sudden bitterness. “Not many, Uncle. Only those who depend upon my favor, only those who want my tolerance and my gold. Only those”—and the heavy lips twisted in a savage scorn—“who tremble at Pharaoh’s frown and seek the crumbs of preference at his feet. Not the people, Uncle: not the people. You say it is impossible to deny the King anything. There is a thing, the one thing they can deny me: they have denied me their love, and they have denied it to my Father Aten … and I am wondering, Uncle,” he said, and abruptly, quite chillingly, his voice dropped to a softer and more thoughtful register, “if it is not time for me to require it of them. What say you to that?”
“Son of the Sun,” I said, and though I am twenty-five years older than I was on the day I similarly defied his father, I spoke unhesitatingly and with a conviction
that overrode, if it did not eliminate, fear, “I say to that, that such a course would be insanity. Yes!” I repeated sharply as he swung and stared at me with eyes suddenly widened in fury. “Insanity! That would truly destroy the Aten—and yourself. They would hate you for it. They would never forgive you. They would never love you. You cannot win love for yourself and your god in that fashion. Do not do it, Son of the Sun! Do not do it!”
Had Kaires been there then, I think I might have suffered the fate of my brother. But presently, as it had with my brother-in-law on that day so long ago, sanity reasserted itself in the being of my nephew. A terrible struggle obviously went on inside for a few seconds; then the anger faded from his eyes, the glare departed from his face. As simply and directly as he used to ask me questions as a little boy, he asked quietly:
“Then what should I do, Uncle? They do not worship the Aten who is my Father, they do not worship me who am his Son. And throughout the land Amon works everywhere and always to subvert us.” He gave me a long, level glance, a certain irony came into his tone: he was no longer the little boy. “Perhaps you will let me do something to Amon, Uncle? He deserves it.”
For a moment I looked out upon his city and his plain, looked farther to the narrow breadth of Kemet itself, hugging the Nile who gives it life. I thought of the Two Lands, and again I said frankly what was in my heart.
“Majesty, I said before that no one can deny the King the worship of whatever god or gods he may desire. I said no one can deny him anything. And quite correctly you replied that they could deny him love. But what does love rest upon, Son of the Sun? It rests upon good administration, upon a good husbanding of the land, upon the hard work of ruling, upon close attention to the good of the people—upon good kingship. We are here utterly alone and you may kill me for saying it if you like, but you know as well as I that Neb-Ma’at-Ra has not done his duty along these lines. You know Kemet suffers. If you would be loved and worshiped, if you would have your god worshiped, first be a good King. The love, and the worship, will follow.”
“You are saying to me that I have not been a good King,” he said bleakly; and once again, not knowing what the result would be, I answered honestly:
“Yes.”
There was a long silence, very long, while I did not dare look at him for fear of the awful anger I might see. But when he spoke at last, it was again to amaze me.
“And that is why,” he said gently, “there is a Private Secretary and King’s Councilor Aye, who stands at his right hand and gives him good advice in all things.… So tell me what to do about the priests of Amon, Uncle. It may be I need your gift for compromise.”
I did so: and after he had thought about it gravely for a while without ever indicating his reaction, he heaved himself awkwardly to his feet (accepting my hand, which he does with me, Nefertiti, Smenkhkara, Kaires, Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, and absolutely no one else) and we walked slowly toward the waiting chariot and its horses soaked with sweat in Ra’s suffocating rays.
Just before we left the ledge he turned for a last sweeping look over his plain, his city and his kingdom, shading his eyes with a long, thin hand against the blinding reflection of white roofs and gilded temples stretching far away to the southern hills.
“But we still do not know, do we, Uncle,” he remarked softly, “what we are to do about the people’s love and their need to worship me and my Father Aten. For I, unlike you, think that I have been a good and loving King, and I think it time, now, that I devise some way to have them love me in return.”
And I, who had thought I had gotten through to him, was left speechless and said nothing further as he shuffled slowly on to the chariot and I followed dutifully after.
Next morning my daughter came to me, much troubled as she usually is of late. It seemed he had returned moodily to the Palace, summoned her and the girls, taken them to the Great Temple for worship (watched as usual by small groups of respectful but undemonstrative subjects) and then had returned, close to the supper hour, to summon Smenkhkara from his quarters and disappear with him for the rest of the night. By the humiliating but (she seemed to feel) necessary expedient of going herself to the stables and talking to the overseer, she learned that he had again ordered the chariot and had gone again, apparently, to the Northern Tombs.
What he and his brother did there, we of course will never know, but we must assume that he was doing exactly what he told my daughter when he departed, using much the same words he had used with me—“I must go and decide how to make the people love me and Father Aten.” Presumably he wanted company in this, but significantly—as she confessed sobbing to me when her perfect composure finally cracked and she flung herself desperately into my comforting arms—it was the first time he had sought company other than hers to assist him in something so intimately involved with their god.
Since then he has gone about abstracted, brushing aside even the meager details of necessary administration that Ramose, Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, Kaires and I have dared place before him. And about Smenkhkara there has seemed to hover a golden aura even brighter than he usually carries. I do not think—I do not think—it is for the reason Nefertiti imagines, though of course I cannot know. I think it is rather that a boy of fifteen has been entrusted by his worshiped older brother with that brother’s innermost thoughts and most secret plans. Indeed, he told me as much when I took occasion to query him, with a careful innocence, only yesterday.
“What are you so happy about, Smenkhkara?” I inquired with the fond familiarity we always use with him, he is such a sunny and outgoing lad with everyone.
Quite uncharacteristically his open expression changed to one of an innocence as careful as mine.
“Am I happy, Uncle?” he asked. Then suddenly he could contain himself no longer and laughed in sheer exuberance, a boisterous, charming sound. He leaned toward me, placed an excited hand on my arm and lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Uncle, I know what Nefer-Kheperu-Ra is going to do. He has told me everything! It is marvelous, Uncle. Marvelous!”
“Then you will keep the secret and not reveal it to anyone, even me,” I said sternly, “for Nefer-Kheperu-Ra trusts you, and a god must not be betrayed by a god.”
For a second he looked positively stricken at the thought, his face almost drained of color, the finely chiseled bone structure suddenly standing out, the golden aura dimmed, so earnest and intent was he.
“I shall never betray Nefer-Kheperu-Ra, Uncle,” he said solemnly. “I shall never betray him!”
“That is good,” I said in a kindlier tone. “Run along, then, and enjoy your games. I believe your little brother is waiting for you to play ball with him.”
“Oh yes!” he said eagerly, at once distracted so that I realized that he is really just barely out of childhood himself. “Tut thinks he gives me good competition, though the little devil”—and his tone became loving, for he is very fond of the chubby three-year-old, as are we all—“can still barely toddle. I always let him win, Uncle. He thinks he is great, that one, beating me!”
“Good for you,” I said. “You have a kind heart, Nephew. Don’t let it”—I had not meant to become serious again, but something impelled me to say it—“do not let it betray you into doing things you should not do.”
Again for a split second something, some shadow, some secretiveness—or did I imagine it? I hope so—flickered in his eyes. Then he laughed again, all happiness, all innocence … I think.
“I have it under control, Uncle,” he assured me lightly. “It obeys”—and he struck a sudden dramatic pose and thumped himself sturdily on the chest—“it obeys the God Smenkhkara! It would not dare do otherwise!”
“Be off with you,” I said, joining him in his delighted laughter, for there was after all nothing else to do. “Be careful or your brother will beat you again!”
“He had better,” he said with another delighted laugh. “I would never forgive him did he not!”
And he raced away—happy and g
olden and, in his own outwardly sunny way, as elusive as ever his older brother can be.
So I do not know what portends at the Window of Appearances this afternoon. It may be peaceable, it may be violent, it may be a combination of the two—one does not know, with Nefer-Kheperu-Ra Akhenaten. Always up to now, with the single harsh explosion of my brother Aanen’s death, his ways have been gentle, his methods peaceable. I believe he still wishes to pursue his purpose in this fashion. But in this, of course, I may be letting my wishes run away with me.
In any event, Private Secretary and King’s Councilor Aye will be there with the rest: prepared, as always, to serve the House of Thebes and help it where he can.
I see, perhaps too gloomily, several areas in which this may presently be more necessary than it has ever been.
***
Bek
I am the apprentice of His Majesty, I have been taught by the King: many are the wonders we have created here and throughout the land of Kemet, and to all its borders and boundaries—yea, even to the endless bleakness of the Red Land near the Fourth Cataract in the south, even to the lands of Palestine and Syria and Mesopotamia to the north.
He lives in truth as he wishes, wherever men know the name of Kemet, and that is everywhere. So, too, do the nobles and courtiers who live, not “in truth,” but by his favor, and pattern themselves upon him because they must. So even do I, for lately I have begun to make clay models for a quartzite stela of myself and my wife Ta-heret, and I find that, with the ease which has now become habit, I am giving myself the same bulbous breasts, the same protruding stomach, the same spreading hips and spindly legs that he has. I am giving Ta-heret the same characteristics. And I ask myself, even as I know the answer: why? Why make her, who has always been, if not the world’s most beautiful woman, at least very satisfying to me, such a grotesque figure? Why am I making myself, who has always been, if not the world’s handsomest man, at least a sturdy and respectable figure, as odd and, yes—though I almost dare not breathe the word even to myself—as laughable, as he?
