by Allen Drury
He comes to me tonight, very late, at the hour when Pani tells us all will be ready in the embalming house. There, too, will come Nefertiti, Smenkhkara, Aye, Horemheb, Sitamon and Amonhotep, Son of Hapu.
Together we senior members of the Family and our most faithful servant will pay our last private respects before we go before the people tomorrow morning in the long procession that will move through Thebes from Luxor to Karnak and thence across the river to the Western Bank and the final resting place.
Before we watch my husband’s mummy being sealed away forever in his sarcophagi, I have arranged that we will have a time to talk. I have mentioned my purpose to my niece, to my brother, and to all save the two lovers. They will be surprised and no doubt furious with us. It does not matter. There are things that must be said. I, Queen Tiye, the Great Wife, for many years Pharaoh in all but name of the Two Lands, have decided it must be done. I am prepared for the consequences and so are the others. It will not be pleasant. But it must be done.
***
Sitamon
My mother has summoned us to her apartments tonight before we go to the embalming house. It promises to be an interesting conversation.
I wish it might touch, though I know it will not, on the future of the Queen-Princess Sitamon and her plans to marry her cousin the General Horemheb. These plans appeared to be quite feasible seventy days ago when my father died. Now they are not so clear. I wonder why this is.…
I think perhaps it is my fault. I should not have approached Horemheb so soon. I should have waited several days. I should not have gone to him immediately upon leaving my father’s deathbed, still in tears (increased by the ridiculous ritual wailing we women must always do on such occasions), to throw myself upon his compassion and, I thought, his love.
Now I am not so sure of either. Now I begin to see my lifelong companion in a new light. Is Horemheb capable of compassion? Is it possible for him to love? Or does he have purposes that preclude both?
I cannot believe it of one who has been so kind and tender with me for so many years, the father of my three lost children. It is simply that he is distracted by events, absorbed in affairs of state, deeply enwrapt in the problems of transition which now confront all Kemet. Great responsibilities fall to him and his father in this difficult time. Indeed, they fall to us all, who must somehow bring a control and balance to my brother’s rule that he may not wish and may violently resist.
Akhenaten is twenty-seven and embarked upon strange courses. His marriages with his daughters have caused uneasiness in the Two Lands, particularly since they have not produced the sons that have been their ostensible purpose. Unfairly, perhaps, but nonetheless inevitably, a harsher interpretation gains ground, so Horemheb tells me. Simple lust is easier for the people to understand, particularly when at heart they do not approve. I do not believe this. I think his purpose, while pathetic, has been genuine. But not everyone is so tolerant. The ugly gossip grows.
With my younger brother Smenkhkara he has become as besotted as he is with the Aten, and alas, almost as openly. Again, there may have been some more innocent original purpose there, some pathetic grasping, perhaps, after a physical perfection taken from him by the dreadful illness that changed so many things in him, and thus so many things in Kemet. But here, too, the gossip has it that the end result is the same. And here even I, who like all the Family have always loved and tried to protect him from himself, find that I am wavering. Much can be forgiven a Good God, Son of the Sun and supreme ruler of us all. But there are areas where, in time, forgiveness ends and sniggering speculation begins. And sadness comes, in the hearts of those who love him.
With Amon he exists in a half truce so tense that it affects everything in the Two Lands. Doddering old Maya and his white-robed underlings had no choice but to bend to my brother’s will when he halved their wealth and their priesthood with the Aten. But a deep and vengeful hatred has resulted in their ranks. Those who were assigned to the Aten have of course subverted him as much as they dared, and the rest have kept the people constantly stirred up with their agitations against what they whisper to be an unnatural order of things. And so, of course, in the context of our ancient history, it is. Aten is the newcomer here, not Amon. Ancient tradition, sympathy, loyalty, power, aid Amon. To this day, Hymn to the Aten and my brother’s orders notwithstanding, the people as a whole still belong to Amon.
And now, without challenge, and without my father’s easygoing influence to soften the fact, the people also belong to Akhenaten. And in the Palace we are constantly informed, by those whose business it is to find out for us, that they are terrified of what he may see fit to do to them.
I myself do not think it will be so severe—and yet, I must confess, this rises more from hope than knowledge. I see him very rarely now, not being one who has to fawn upon him in Akhet-Aten, but one who spends most of her time here in familiar, comfortable old Malkata. Half-deserted Thebes dozes beside the Nile and for the most part I doze with her, since Horemheb, knowing my aversion to the new city, visits me often here. He is very diligent on my brother’s business, but he still manages to come to Thebes every few days … which leaves me even more puzzled by his evasiveness concerning our wedding plans.
For these, I have already obtained Akhenaten’s consent, which I do not necessarily have to have, but which makes it easier—or would make it easier, were Horemheb so inclined. There was a moment—apparently wry for him, more than a little tense for me—when I suddenly thought that my brother had other ideas. It turned out to be but one more of those ironic games he plays increasingly with the Family. It is, I think, part of his growing isolation from us: he jests to hurt now, not, as he once did, as a form of self-defense.
“Sister,” he said slowly when I asked my question, “are you very sure this is what you want to do?”
“But, yes, Majesty,” I said, unable to keep the surprise from my voice. “You know how it has been with Horemheb and me for many years. What else would I desire, now that our father has returned to the Aten?”
“I am glad you do not say ‘returned to Amon,’” he said dryly. “Many of my people still do.”
This was the first time, I think, when I really realized, with a chilling inescapability, that they are indeed, now, his people. I tried to turn aside what I feared to be his anger with them.
“But many do not, Son of the Sun. Many say, as you and I do, ‘returned to the Aten.’”
“He wished to be buried at Thebes in the old faith,” he said moodily, his eyes getting their faraway, brooding look. “After all these years, he still wished to be buried by Amon.”
“Will you permit it?” I asked. He gave me a sharp glance, eyes abruptly direct and angry.
“I loved our father,” he said flatly. “I shall do as he wished, even though it galls me to give Amon the satisfaction.”
“I am glad,” I ventured to say, “for I think a little satisfaction for Amon once in a while will not do harm.”
“Any satisfaction, now, for Amon will do harm,” he said. “But it cannot be helped. After—” His voice trailed away and the enigmatic eyes grew clouded and distant again. He repeated softly: “After … we shall see … But,” he resumed abruptly before I could question, which I would have done—we all have grown more challenging lately in our attempts to divert him from his course—“you have a different problem, Sister. Are you sure what you propose would be best for our House? Might there not be another plan that would better serve the Dynasty and the Two Lands?”
“What is that?” I demanded, unable to keep the alarm from my voice, for we have always, even in these recent months, been very close, and I thought I could perceive his meaning; which I did, right enough.
“I need sons,” he said, almost dreamily, eyes narrowed and watching me carefully. “You are a ‘widow’ now, you have the blood of Ra. You are my sister. Why should not—”
“Brother,” I said sharply, and I am afraid my voice grew a little shrill with tension, but I
did not flinch before him: “We will not.”
“Oh?” he said sharply. “Do you defy Pharaoh?”
“I live in truth,” I said with an angry sarcasm that might have cost me my head but I no longer feared, I became the daughter of my mother and her iron was in my heart, “and I do not care if you kill me for it. Yes, I defy Pharaoh! There are enough—” I almost finished, “affronts to nature going on in this land!” but very fortunately restrained myself and repeated only, “I defy Pharaoh! Will Pharaoh take vengeance on his defenseless sister for this?”
He stared at me from the eyes which can so quickly grow so blank and cold and for several moments said nothing. I returned him stare for stare, for, as I say, there are times when I am the daughter of Queen Tiye, and I no longer cared. Then abruptly his face relaxed. He smiled—but not, as he used to do, in a kindly way. Instead it was mocking, almost harsh, contemptuous.
“Sister, I would not steal you from your love. Marry Horemheb, if he will have you, with my blessing.”
“He will have me!” I said with an assurance strengthened by the anger of relief. “You may be very sure, he will have me!”
“I hope so,” he said, turning away, dismissing me with a discourtesy that also was unlike him—or at least, unlike him as he used to be. “I should hate to see such eternal devotion gone for nothing.”
“Do not mock, Brother,” I said, not bothering with “Majesty,” or “Son of the Sun,” or other courtesies, for I was too angry. “The day may come when you will need the support of those who love you. Do not drive us away with mockery.”
He turned back abruptly and his eyes filled with a naked unhappiness that still could touch my heart, even then.
“I have always had it,” he said, very low, “and what good has it done me?”
“Much good, Brother,” I said, suddenly filled with a desperate pity and a desperate need to reassure him. “Surely you realize that!”
“Yes,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I do realize, even though …” But he did not finish, and this time when he turned away, I knew I really was dismissed and he would not speak longer with me.
So I left him, frustrated and saddened as we all are these days when we try to talk to Akhenaten, and went to find Horemheb. And there received, as I have recounted, excuses and evasions and half promises and uncertainties. At first this crushed me: then my anger grew. Now I do not know whether I love him or hate him. But he is much too strong in the land for me to take any vengeance, even were I so inclined. I must be patient and approach him more softly. He is, as I say, distracted by events. Tomorrow my father will be buried. All will be changed. Perhaps when we meet at the Great Wife’s apartments tonight he will have a friendlier sign for me.
Certainly we will all need to stand together then, for I do not think my mother intends anything gentle with my brothers.
***
Nefertiti
My mother-in-law spoke to me briefly in the corridors of Malkata this morning. Guards and soldiers stood about, ladies in waiting hovered, priests of Amon, restored to a brief moment of importance in Thebes as they supervise the burial of my uncle, lingered as close as they dared and strained their eyes and ears.
She placed a hand on my arm, leaned close and whispered:
“The Family will gather in my chambers one hour before the viewing. We must talk while his presence still lingers. It may be the last chance to control the King.”
“Majesty,” I said, and I am afraid my eyes showed the sadness I felt, “I do not think there is any longer any chance to control the King.”
“There must be!” she said, her voice fierce but still held tightly to a whisper. “The madness must stop!”
“He does not consider it madness,” I said sadly, “and so it will not stop. However, I shall be there, of course, as you wish.”
“Will you help me argue with him?” she demanded, and I thought suddenly how drawn and worn that once smooth, complacent face has become in these recent years. It is not easy being the mother of sons, evidently—anyway, such as these.
“Majesty,” I said, “do you think I have not argued?”
“Tonight we will all join you. Surely he must listen to us all!”
“I will join you,” I said. “I will not take the lead again, for I have done it already too often.”
We parted and returned to our respective apartments while the watchers stirred and buzzed. I have no faith in what the Great Wife proposes. But she is determined to make one last assault upon the citadel. I expect those who live and love within will ignore it, as they have all else.
Yet perhaps she may be right. Perhaps if we all unite in our protests, he and Smenkhkara will listen. Perhaps if we all reason quietly but firmly—
But what nonsense am I talking to myself! It is long past that. All, all is gone, beyond sense and beyond caring.
“Fair of Face, Mistress of Happiness, Endowed with Favors, Great of Love—” so he called me once, and so commanded that my statues be inscribed. Now it is rare that we even speak, and then it is always to quarrel—always to quarrel. It has been two weeks since we have been able to discuss matters calmly, and then it only ended, as it always does of late, in bitterness and uncertainty and more confused unhappiness for me. My control never breaks any more, even with my father: I am past that point. But my heart is eaten out as if by lions. And the lions are merciless. Pride alone sustains me: pride, and a love which will not ever die, no matter how he slaughters it.
“I have called you here,” he said abruptly on that last occasion, when I dutifully appeared in the throne room in response to the always shining, always laughing messenger he sent, “so that we might discuss certain matters that concern us.”
“Must our cousin remain?” I inquired coldly, while Smenkhkara looked at me with that look I have come to know so well, no longer loving and respectful as it used to be, but appraising, now, a little mocking, somewhat pitying, even smug.
“I should like him to,” Akhenaten said.
“I should prefer that he leave,” I replied, still in the same cold, level voice; and decided to add, for his anger no longer concerns me overly much, “else I shall go myself, and that would defeat your purpose, would it not, O Son of the Sun?”
“What is my purpose?” he inquired with a sudden sharpness. I shrugged.
“To hurt me. What other purpose does my lord have, these days?”
At this his face suddenly contorted with pain, his eyes actually filled with tears. I perceived that I had hurt him, which gave me an agonized and unhappy pleasure: I had not intended it, but since it had occurred, I both enjoyed it and despised myself for the enjoyment.
“Go, then,” he said quietly to Smenkhkara.
“But, Son of the Sun—” the golden one protested.
“Go!” he ordered harshly; and then added more gently, “I shall see you later, I would talk now with my wife.”
“Yes, Son of the Sun,” Smenkhkara said, suddenly sounding more humble than I think he feels of late. Yet he turned to me with a sudden fleeting resurgence of the old feeling, bowed low, kissed my hand, started to say, “Cousin, I—” and then stopped, his face also strained for a second with pain and bafflement. For what was there to say?
Our eyes held for a long moment, which I broke by saying matter-of-factly:
“Go, Cousin, and be happy in your fashion. I shall no doubt see you about the Palace from time to time. Be of good cheer.”
“Cousin—” he tried again, and then abandoned the attempt. The defensive expression returned. “You, too, Majesty,” he said as he swung on his heel and left the room, not bothering even to say respectful farewell to Pharaoh, so confident and so insolent has he become in the certainty of his love.
This was here in Malkata, where we came some fifty days after my uncle returned to the Aten. It had been obvious for some weeks that his death could not be long delayed, but both of us hate Thebes—in that we are still united—and Thebes, I am afraid, because this is still
the seat of what remains of Amon’s power, hates us. So we put off returning here as long as we decently could. We sent dutiful messages to the Great Wife, of course, and my father Aye, Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, and other court officials soon came up the river to take residence until the ceremonies are over. Horemheb, though busy on my husband’s affairs in Akhet-Aten, has also taken occasion to visit every few days. My aunt has had good company during the period of mummification, and I understand that she has shown herself to the people twice a day, dutifully weeping as ritual demands. We have done the same at the Window of Appearances at Akhet-Aten, and have curtailed somewhat our drives about the city—on which, in any event, Akhenaten has in recent months requested his brother, far more often than his wife and children, to accompany him. He has ordered memorial services to be held without ceasing in all the temples of the Aten, and for seventy days and nights relays of priests have performed them constantly the length of Kemet. He issued no orders to Amon—he has simply ignored Amon in the last two years, after making sure that Horemheb carried out his orders for the transfer of half of Amon’s goods and priests to Aten. But Maya, growing ever more ancient and senile, but supported by an active group headed by an apparently brilliant young acolyte from Memphis named Hat-sur-et, has made sure that Amon has also been much noticed. Similar unceasing services have taken place in his temples, and of course my uncle’s decision to return to the old faith for his burial has brought a brief revival of Amon’s pomp and circumstance here in Thebes. But it is only a flickering light which will soon be damped down again after the funeral. Amon whispers and conspires all the time, but it is all he can do. His priests do not dare attack my husband openly, particularly now that he has inherited the full power of the Double Crown.
