by Allen Drury
Nor, he assured me, had they ever been as numerous as I, in my jealous imaginings, had supposed—a fact which I believed, of course, but which I nonetheless took pains to confirm with Ramesses, who is good and dull and honest, and also easily cowed by threats of banishment. When sufficiently frightened he told me all I wanted to know: after which we again became firm and lasting friends. And I stopped worrying about Kaires, who gave me three children we could not keep and would have married me in an instant had I not, of course, been married to my father.
So I can understand my cousin Nefertiti, though I must admit I find myself a little contemptuous of her, now. I think she makes a pyramid of an anthill. Smenkhkara is fifteen and a hero-worshiper. She ought to understand that, for she has always worshiped the same “hero.” It will pass. I doubt if anything has happened, or will. It will pass.
Much more to the point, it seems to me, is the condition of my brother’s “doctrine,” and there, I suspect, lie tensions even deeper between them—tensions which conceivably have much more to do with the building of her new palace than anything she fancies about my brothers. Certainly it is something which concerns me, for I fear that an impatience grows in him at last that could find its outlet in some action wild and completely out of control. I suspect that much more than Kaires’ new name will be announced at the Window of Appearances this afternoon. I pray it may not do unchangeable harm to Kemet and to our House.
I think impatience grows in him and I think boredom grows in her. She has been completely faithful to him and to the doctrine: she has performed her functions as High Priestess of the Aten without ever once complaining or ever once failing to do as he desired. Yet days have lengthened into weeks, weeks into months, months into years—ten of them!—and nothing has changed the unvarying routine. The offerings in the temples, the visits to various parts of the city to watch the building, the frequent picnics and broodings at the Northern Tombs (I have been included often enough in these so that I now find some polite excuse not to be there to listen to his endless dreamings), the mad dashes through the streets with the banners flying, the people gaping and the girls hanging on for dear life—and on it goes.
And it never gets anywhere.
Two or three times a year, of course, they go up the river to Thebes or down the river to Memphis: he makes his duty calls, and they stay for a while at Malkata or at the Great Palace in Memphis, and along the Nile the people come out dutifully to see them pass. But they are not the triumphal progressions they were when he had just become Co-Regent and the two were newly married. Now the people come out because they are curious, not because they are loving; and of late, even they seem to have become bored. The crowds are not, so Kaires tells me (for I usually take the opportunity during these events to stay at Thebes, which is still home to me), as large as they used to be. Nor are they filled with excitement, or with the sort of adoration our parents can still command after almost forty years on the throne. Not even we who see him so intimately and so often (and are frequently moved by pity) can ever quite get used to that strange, ungainly figure. Many of our people still come out to see it in awe and wonderment: but even the novelty of that, for many, is evidently beginning to pass.
And he feels it: he feels it. He has asked me sometimes, in a tone almost despairing:
“Sister, where have I failed?”
And I have only been able to reply soothingly, my heart wrenched by his troubled and unhappy sincerity:
“Son of the Sun, you have not failed. It is simply that you have not yet made yourself understood.”
“Understood?” he cried sharply the last time we had such an exchange, which was only a few days ago. “And ‘not yet’? But I have been on the throne ten years! And I have been a good King! A good King! Why have they not ‘understood’ me?”
“They will, Brother,” I said, still soothingly. “Give them time: they will.”
“They have had time!” he snapped with a sudden savagery that quite took me aback and frightened me, it was so unlike his normal placid mien. “They have had time!”
“Give them a little more,” I said, almost pleading in an attempt to change his mood.
“I do not know how much more I may have,” he said somberly, which also startled me and took me aback; for while he has never been noticeably strong, neither, since his ailment ended, has he been particularly sickly.
“You have lived long, Son of the Sun,” I said stoutly. “You will live longer. All will be well. You will see.”
“They will see,” he said darkly; and repeated as if to himself, “They will see.”
“Yes, Majesty,” I said with a deliberately exaggerated humility—for after all, I am “Majesty,” too, and need not defer too deeply—bowed low and withdrew. I have learned it is best to leave him in such moods. They used to be very rare but they are becoming more frequent. They worry me.
Boredom—boredom and impatience. They are becoming the twin curses of his city. They explain why, I think, my uncle Aye is moving gradually, making certain plans, looking far ahead as he has always done. They explain why Kaires is making plans, and Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, who confides his worries to me from time to time when we can find occasion, usually at Thebes, to talk unobserved. They explain why, perhaps even more than, or at least equally with, her troubled thoughts about Smenkhkara, my cousin Nefertiti has asked for her own palace. They explain why my parents consult one another in frequent long and worried talks, and draw together more closely, as if in preparation.
My father may not live too much longer. Akhenaten may soon be the only Son of the Sun, Living Horus, Great Bull, King of the Two Lands, Pharaoh … What then?
I think then I shall marry Kaires, for I shall be released from my lifelong bondage to the Good God Amonhotep III (life, health, prosperity!) and it will no longer matter that I bear the blood of direct descent that carries with it the right to the Double Crown. Akhenaten will not need me, his succession will be confirmed. Merytaten will then carry the blood and will be married to Smenkhkara to guarantee his succession.
I shall not be too old. I am only thirty-three, still possessed of a good figure, a pleasing face, the great wealth of palaces, jewels and cultivated lands that my father long ago settled upon me that I might own them forever. Kaires is already established beyond dislodgment in the new reign. He will be greatly strengthened if I am openly beside him.
I rather look forward to the change, as a matter of fact, though I shall miss my father. And I worry, of course, as one must, about what will happen to the Two Lands.
I wonder if I worry enough.…
Perhaps someday I, too, could become a real Queen instead of just my father’s figurehead.
I must talk to Kaires about that.…
***
Kaires
We drift, drift, drift. Today, perhaps, at the Window of Appearances, we drift no longer. Yet if we move, where will it be?
I know where it will be for me: to a new recognition, a new dignity, a new power. This will be symbolized by the announcement of the new name I have chosen for myself. It will be made forever unchallengeable by the fact that my father will at last acknowledge me, that the Co-Regent will thereupon grant me legitimacy and that I will henceforth take my place openly as a member of the Family, which I am and have always been.
Then we shall see how things proceed with those “purposes” which Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, told me he discerned in me, so many years ago.…
I believe at first my father was reluctant to do this; yet when I laid before him facts he could not deny, it did not take him long to agree. He is a practical man, after all, despite his years of power. And I believe that he also feels the time is near when those of us who are truly concerned for the future of the Two Kingdoms must gather closer together in preparation for whatever may shortly come.
I discussed it with him in the Palace at Malkata a month ago during our most recent visit to Thebes. At first he pretended he did not know what I was talking about but I
soon dispensed with that.
“Father—” I began as soon as I had kissed his hand, and at once he interrupted sharply.
“Do not call me that!”
“Why not?” I demanded, no longer impressed as I used to be by his shows of anger: the time has passed, for that. “Such is your name, to me.”
“I warned you years ago—”
It was my turn to interrupt.
“Years ago I was a youth of fifteen. I have honored for twenty-five years the pledge I gave you then. It is enough, with the country in the condition it is. It is time for me to take my rightful place.”
“What is it you wish to discuss with me?” he asked coldly.
“A long-dead girl you met on an expedition in your youth,” I said. “And the need to stop a game that was never necessary.”
“Indeed it was,” he said, more reasonably. “You are not aware of all the intrigues that have swirled about this House.”
“Most of them,” I said. “I am not a fool, Father. Most importantly am I aware of the stewardship of Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and how it has diminished the Two Lands, at home and abroad. I am in his confidence and I intend to continue to aid him where I can—”
“You must aid him in all things, as he wishes,” he said flatly.
“Even if I believe them to be destructive of the Kingdom?” I demanded. “How can you counsel me so?”
“Because if you are at his side you can modify, you can soften, you can see that things are done not quite so harshly as he might, perhaps, command. And in time you can perhaps bring them back to the condition that will be best for Kemet.”
“Not unless I have my own recognition and my own power in my own right, Father,” I said firmly. “And that can only come with your recognition and its formal confirmation by Akhenaten so that no one dare challenge it. He trusts you, Father. He will listen if you persuade him.”
“May be,” he said with a sudden moodiness that is unlike him—or perhaps it is, but I had never before been allowed to see it. “May be, my son, though of late he seems bent upon having his own way, and it may not be so easy.”
“It is to his advantage, Father,” I said. “I sense that he intends to do something soon—something forceful. He has been slumbering, in a sense, ever since the building of Akhet-Aten. Now there will be a change. He has said nothing to me, but I sense it: he will move.”
“You are shrewd,” my father said. “He has said something to me. You are right: he will move.”
“How?”
He sighed.
“I do not know, Kaires. He asked, I suggested, but—I do not know. I too sense his mood. He is finally becoming impatient, with Amon and with the people. I do not know how he intends to treat them—I am not sure he knows. But he is coming to feel that he must do something.”
“All the better, then,” I said crisply, “that I have my rightful place and be in a position, as you say, to modify, to soften, and to see that things are less harsh. Is it not so, Father? And must not all of us who feel the same stand together against whatever madness he may devise?”
“Do not speak so of your Pharaoh!” my father said, but it was halfhearted and automatic; and, emboldened, I said:
“I speak so of my kinsman. I know it will go no further than your ears.”
“No,” he agreed, suddenly somber. “It will go no further. Nor will what I say now.… You are right: he may be mad, though I have never really believed it, perhaps because I have pitied him and loved him. Yes”—for I had made a slight gesture—“I know that you have loved and pitied him too. If he is indeed mad, then it is right that you stand beside him, for the sake of Kemet and this House.… What name do you wish to take?”
When I told him, he said, rather wryly, “It is unusual, but perhaps it will grip men’s minds better so. It will take me a time to get used to it, but I will, Kaires. I will. And how soon would you like me to acknowledge you?”
“As soon as possible, do you not think?” I suggested. “Perhaps it can all be done together.”
He nodded.
“He said something to me the other day about holding another ceremony soon at the Window of Appearances. I gathered he intends some announcement, some action—this may be the occasion we fear. Perhaps I can persuade him to make the announcement for you then. It may distract him from the other. I return to Akhet-Aten tomorrow. Will you be coming with me? He may wish to talk to you about it.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I must remain in Thebes for several days to attend to matters of the garrison here. I shall be back Friday week if he wishes to see me. Convey him my love and respects.”
“I shall,” he said; and paused; and for the first time smiled; and extended his hand. “And do I have them too?”
And suddenly I was overcome with emotion at the infinite kindness and astuteness of this great figure, and gripped his hand in return, momentarily without words as my eyes, like his, filled with tears.
“Always, Father,” I managed finally to blurt out. “Always.”
“Good,” he said. “I shall meet you next in Akhet-Aten and we shall see what can be done for this beloved land, and how we can best help your—kinsman—to find the happiness he has never known but is determined to have … and yet not destroy the Two Kingdoms in the process.”
“It will not be easy, Father,” I said soberly.
He gave me a look equally grave.
“No. But somehow it must be done. I count on you to help, my son.”
“Always, Father,” I said again, fervently. “Always.”
Next day he sailed downriver to Akhet-Aten. Four days later I followed, taking horse down the highway that parallels the river, instead of boat, to facilitate my speed. On my arrival I went at once to Sitamon and spent the night in the charming little palace her brother has given her along the river. She was moody and preoccupied, worried about him as we all are, but glad to see me. Promptly next morning I received summons from the Great Palace: the Co-Regent wished to see me, at my convenience. My convenience was, of course, immediate. He received me alone, seated on his throne. His generosity overwhelmed me. Always, out of Nefer-Kheperu-Ra, there come surprises.
“Your father has spoken to me,” he said, without preliminary.
“Yes, Son of the Sun,” I said quietly.
“I am not surprised,” he said with a smile. “I always knew—or at least always hoped—that so sturdy a servant of Kemet and our House might be related to me. I have always loved my ‘big brother.’ Now there is added reason for it.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” I said, genuinely moved. “And I, as you know, have always loved you.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I shall never forget our many, many happy times together when you were so kind to my wife and me.”
This was the first time in my memory that he had not called her either “Nefer-Neferu-Aten” or simply “Nefertiti” to me. I took no notice, but filed it away.
“I like your new name,” he said. “It has an interesting ring to it. Men will not forget it. How did you happen to come upon it?”
“I do not know, exactly,” I said. “One night a few months ago, bivouacking under the stars.”
“With whom?” he asked quickly, and then laughed. “But I must not press you on that, ‘big brother.’ We must not press one another, eh?”
“No, Son of the Sun,” I said with a smile, again making a mental note. “Better not. I am glad you like it.”
“It has a good sound,” he said. “I shall be pleased to announce it, together with your formal recognition as a member of the Family, at the Window of Appearances next week. You will be there?”
“Yes, Majesty,” I said cautiously. “Will you announce wonders?”
“Kaires!” he said. “Won’t you be wonder enough?” Then he laughed again. “You will be, when you hear all that I have in mind for you.”
And he proceeded to unfold wonders indeed; so much so that I could only exclaim, “Son of the Sun! Son of the Sun!” when
he was through.
“I hope that will satisfy you, Kaires,” he said. And added with complete sincerity: “For I trust you with my kingdom as I trust you with my life.”
“I shall never betray your trust, Nefer-Kheperu-Ra,” I said solemnly, going back for a moment to the old familiarity. “Never.”
“Never,” he said, “is a long, long time.” And repeated with a sudden somber emphasis that brought a momentary shiver to my spine for the abysses it appeared to open at the feet of both of us: “Never is a long, long time.…”
To this there was really no adequate answer, so I attempted none, only standing quietly until it pleased him to bring back his glance from the faraway place where it seemed to have gone. Then I spoke with a seemingly innocent interest that of course did not fool him for an instant.
“Will you announce other wonders, Majesty?”
“And will I tell them to you, ‘big brother’?” he responded with a light but not unfriendly mockery. “Yes, I shall announce them, and no, I will not tell you what they are. Does that satisfy you?”
“Not exactly, Majesty,” I said with a lightness to match his own, “but I suppose I must be content to wait, like the rest of Kemet, until I hear them formally from your lips.”
“The rest of Kemet,” he repeated, again sounding far away. “‘The rest of Kemet.’ … Yes, the rest of Kemet! That is the problem, the rest of Kemet! But I think—I think”—and he paused, his eyes widened in thought—“I think the rest of Kemet will come to understand and love me, yet.”
“You are understood and loved, Son of the Sun,” I began, but he cut me off with a sharp gesture and a sudden angry look.
“I am not about to give you such authority in order that you may treat me like a fool!” he said harshly. “Do not talk to me like an imbecile! We both know how I am ‘understood’ and ‘loved’! Is it not so, ‘big brother’?”
