A God Against the Gods

by Allen Drury

  In a dazed voice he gives the order. In a dazed fashion he and the soldiers stumble into the dark recesses of the temple—always dark, always secret, always hidden and evil, that is you, O Amon! But no longer, my vicious friend! No longer!

  A heavy, waiting silence settles over all. Once again my glance crosses those of my family, but it is as if we are dead to one another: we do not really see one another at all.

  Presently behind me comes the sound of stumbling footsteps. In front rises a strange, agonized murmur. These are the mourners for Amon, who do not know what I intend, but fear, quite accurately, that it will be something awful for their evil god. They are deathly afraid of me now—at last Horse Face has their respect, Father Aten, and we know how amusing and satisfying that is, do we not?—and they dare do nothing more than offer this agonized, animal groan.

  Horemheb and the soldiers come around slowly and stand at attention before me. Uplifted above the soldiers’ heads is the Sacred Barque, that frail, ancient little wooden boat, perhaps no more than five feet in length, which is so infinitely old that its sides are papyrus-thin with the polishings of centuries.

  In it, attached at the base so that he is rigid and upright, his face stern, unfriendly and fierce as it has been throughout our history, there stands, perhaps three feet tall, your antagonist and mine, O Aten, the solid gold figure of the god Amon-Ra.

  “General Horemheb,” I command, “remove the statue of Amon-Ra!”

  Again the animal groan from the crowd. The soldiers lower the barque to waist level so that Horemheb can reach the god. He removes him carefully, staggering a little under his weight, and hands him to three of the sturdiest soldiers. They make a sling for him with their hands, trembling in awe and fear but doing my bidding, as they must.

  Again the animal groan from the crowd. But they have not seen all my wonders yet, have they, Father Aten?

  “Place the Sacred Barque here at my feet,” I command, and as they do so, Smenkhkara instinctively starts to step back. But I hold out a restraining hand and say:

  “Brother, join me!”

  And lifting first one foot and then the other, I trample on the Sacred Barque, whose ancient fragile sides begin to crack and crumble beneath my blows. At my side Smenkhkara begins to trample also in a frenzied, mindless, almost terrifying fashion.

  And over all the animal groan rises and is broken now by horrified, anguished shouts and protestations that cannot be restrained.

  But you are with us, Father Aten, and we do not falter or hesitate.

  We trample and trample and TRAMPLE until we almost forget to stop, so furious do we become in expressing our hatred and our final triumph over this cruel, vindictive, venal god.

  It is only when Horemheb ventures to say at last in a broken, desolate voice, “It is done, Majesty. Son of the Sun, desist, the barque of your enemy is no more!” that I finally return to myself and realize again where I am and what I am doing, and what I still have left to do.

  “Now, citizens of Kemet,” I shout, contemptuously kicking the superstitious dust of centuries off my golden sandals, “follow me to the banks of the Nile and witness the fate of Amon, which shall be final and forever, and will last for millions and millions of years!”

  I gesture to the soldiers holding Amon to precede me. Horemheb falls into step at my right hand, on my left Smenkhkara offers me his arm. I begin to shuffle forward slowly and painfully toward the river, some four hundred feet from the ruined temple. The crowd parts before me, fear and terror in its eyes. I no longer see my family, or anyone: I go now to keep my final appointment with the eternal enemy of my life.

  Halfway there, as I start to pass through the great pylon gates erected by my father, his cartouche confronts me and a sudden inspiration strikes.

  Abruptly I stop.

  “Bring me a chisel and hammer!” I cry; and from somewhere in the crowd, his face white and tense but still obedient to my command as he has always been, steps the chunky little figure of my faithful Bek. In his hand he carries the chisel and hammer with which he was working when I returned so unexpectedly from the Valley of the Kings to shatter forever the world of Amon.

  He bows low and with a trembling hand extends them to me. Once again the deathly silence falls, as all wonder what I will do next. I do not keep them in suspense. I step forward at once and awkwardly begin to chip away at the hieroglyphs for “Amon” in my father’s name of Amonhotep.

  I do not do it very well, but it is enough to show my intent. Then I hand the chisel and hammer back to Bek.

  “Continue,” I command, “until the name of Amon is completely gone from my father’s name. And gather you all your company of sculptors and artisans from everywhere in the Two Lands, Bek, and do you similarly remove the name of Amon wherever and whenever you find it, through all the length and breadth of Kemet. This do I decree!”

  With a sigh that seems to come from the very depths of his heart, my faithful Bek bows and whispers, very low, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  And again the great groan comes from the crowd.

  But they are human, they are curious, the show is still going on: they jostle along as closely as they dare behind the cordon of soldiers that has instinctively formed itself around me.

  We resume our walk to the river, under skies that now have entirely cleared of the gray clouds that earlier depressed the day. It has become noticeably warmer, too. It seems to me that Ra in his form of Amon, cold and sinister, has slunk away. Ra in his form of the glorious Aten now stands bright and beneficent over all the world.

  Suddenly I feel very happy, Father Aten. What I am doing is just and right. You are with me, and all is well with your son Akhenaten as he does what you direct him, living in truth this day as he has never in all his twenty-seven unhappy years lived in truth before. Those unhappy years are over: the happy years are about to begin. This do you tell me now, O Aten, and this do I believe.

  We come to the bank of the river. Hapi sparkles in the sun as he races swiftly away north past Akhet-Aten to the Delta and the Great Green. He does not know the gift I am about to give him, but he will receive it and keep it well, for he is very secret and, in many places, very deep.

  I hold up my golden crook of office. All stop. The heavy, terrified, watching silence falls again.

  “Soldiers!” I command. “Do you hurl the statue of him who is no longer a god, the evil impostor Amon-Ra who has for so long plundered and disgraced the land of Kemet, do you hurl him into the farthest reaches of the Nile!”

  They tremble—they give me horrified glances—they hesitate—they mutter to one another—the crowd begins to groan again.

  “AS I COMMAND YOU!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “NOW!”

  They start as if stabbed, which they would certainly be did they not obey—step back three paces from the water’s edge—hesitate for one last second—draw back their arms in unison—encourage one another with their own shout of “Now!”—run forward to the very edge of the bank—and hurl the golden statue of my enemy far, far, up and out, into the bosom of the Nile.

  It rises—hurtles forward—twists and turns—glitters and gleams in Ra’s rays as though it had a life of its own—and then with a heavy splash disappears into the arms of Hapi, nevermore to be seen by mortal man.

  A last great, dreadful, sighing sound comes from both banks of the river, as though all the deaths in all the world were being mourned at the same time. I perceive that I must make sure that the impostor really will nevermore be seen by mortal man.

  I raise my golden crook again. Instantly, obediently—for now, I think, they are truly and permanently terrified of me, which I regret, but I offered them love and they would not have it—they stop their silly noise and listen.

  “Be you all aware,” I cry, and my voice carries clearly over Hapi’s steady lapping, “that if any man or any woman or any child shall attempt to recover the statue of the impostor, then that man or woman or child, be they high or low in this land, will be
slain with the most horrible of tortures as befits a death-enemy of Pharaoh. Be you all aware that this ban lies upon you all, forever and ever, for millions and millions of years. I, Nefer-Kheperu-Ra Akhenaten, so decree it in the name of my Father Aten! You are warned!”

  I wait a long moment to let this sink in; and then I proceed to the further final business of this day, for I have decided that it were best to conclude it all now that I have begun. My mother and father told me long ago—my uncle Aye reaffirmed it—my own experience has borne it out—and you, Father Aten, have finally convinced me of it—that if you would strike at all, you must strike fast and strike completely. This I have finally learned, thanks to you, Father Aten, and to my family who hurt me so last night, and to the priests and people who hissed me on my way this morning. It has been a long time coming, but now I shall not look back. I have suffered enough. And so today I shall do it all.

  “And furthermore!” I cry, and this time the groan is almost desperate, I have shocked and battered them so already. But they have asked for it and there is no turning back.

  “Furthermore, from this day forward all the temples of Amon everywhere in Kemet and in all friendly lands along its borders shall be closed entirely, forever and ever. All their goods and treasures shall be returned to Pharaoh at once to be placed in the temples of the Aten, and all their priesthoods shall be utterly and forever dispersed.”

  More groans, more outcries, more weeping and wailing, quite open now. But I proceed regardless, as you know I must, O Aten.

  “And all the temples of all the other gods, who have aided and assisted Amon in his attempts to conquer Kemet and ruin my House and subvert the great god Aten, shall also be closed immediately, forever and ever, and all their goods and treasures shall be returned at once to Pharaoh to give to the Aten, and all their priesthoods shall be utterly and forever dispersed.

  “And there shall be no other god but Aten.”

  More groans, more wailing. Why will they persist in these stupid, pointless sounds? It will do them no good and may only make me angry. And for the moment, at least, I am not angry at all. I am simply rendering judgments too long delayed.

  “There shall be no other god but Aten,” I repeat firmly into their disrespectful clamor, and it does abate abruptly to hear my final word on the gods, none of whom has ever been as powerful as Amon, but all of whom have had many adherents among the ignorant. “And all temples and all treasure and all things in the land of Kemet shall belong to him and to me, his son Akhenaten, whom he loves and commands you to worship from this day forward, forever and ever.

  “I, Nefer-Kheperu-Ra Akhenaten, Living Horus, Son of the Sun, King and Pharaoh, so decree it!”

  I think, now, that I have done enough to complete this day. Yet as I turn to leave the riverbank, the crowd falling back in awe and fearful whispering at my advance, I stumble on a rock and clutch my brother’s steady, loving arm. And as I do, there suddenly comes into focus before my eyes the deathly pale, desperately strained, but still perfect face of my wife. Always, always, always perfect! Does she never have a human reaction?

  And I realize that there is one more piece of business left that I must do. And I decide that it, too, might as well be accomplished, once and for all, this day.

  “Stop!” I cry, and obediently they shrink to frozen silence before me—all, all, all but my stout Smenkhkara, who stands steady, loving and strong at the right hand of his King.

  “Help me to that pedestal,” I say to him, pointing to the great stone platform on which stands a colossal statue of our great-great-grandfather Tuthmose III (life, health, prosperity!). Tenderly, but how strongly, he lifts me up. I face the crowd, I stare down upon Nefertiti.

  “Come to my side,” I say to Smenkhkara, and her face suddenly becomes completely white, drained of all color, as he rises to me in one lithe, lovely leap—such a leap as I could once accomplish, long ago before my illness came and loveliness vanished from my life … until he returned it to me, with your blessing, O Aten.

  “People of Kemet!” I say, and in the awful stillness the rest of my family comes in focus, too, and I see that they, too, like her who has been my wife, are seeing ghosts and death’s-heads—or so they look, ghastly, strangely shriveled and sadly pathetic as they appear to me.

  “People of Kemet”—and now, in spite of myself, my voice does thicken with emotion, for I must confess I am not completely happy with what I do, I like to hurt no one, but I must do what is right and just—“People of Kemet, you all know that the Chief Wife of Pharaoh has failed to give him sons. You all know that in recent months she has spent increasing time away from him, having decided, apparently, that she prefers the company of others to that of him whom she has so sadly failed in this regard. You know that she has become, thereby, no longer a fit mate for the Living Horus, to whom she gives neither sons, nor comfort, nor happiness. Therefore she must be cast out.”

  Abruptly there is a shrill, high keening whose source I cannot for a moment perceive. Then I see that it comes from my wives, my mother and my sister Sitamon, who are clinging together, weeping as though their hearts would break.

  All else is still with a stillness like death as the horrid sound continues. They are shameless about it. It is gross discourtesy and disrespect to me. How can they forget their royal dignity so?

  For just a second, I will confess to you, Father Aten, this shakes me and I find myself almost unable to continue. But I harden my heart as you and I know I must; and presently, though my voice still shakes a bit with emotion no matter how just I know my action to be, I continue.

  “Fortunately, people of Kemet, the Living Horus is not alone, though he no longer has the loving company of the Chief Wife, or the comfort of her presence at his side. He is not alone, nor will he ever be again! The great god Aten has brought to him a companion of his heart to love and comfort him forever, to work with him for your good, my people of Kemet, to do all things right and glorious for the Two Lands, and to be unto him a right arm, a left arm, a right leg, a left leg, a head, a heart, a body, a ka and ba to love and tend the Living Horus in all things, for all the days of our lives until we shall both return to the Aten, to live together forever and ever in the afterworld.

  “Therefore on this day do I put aside the Chief Wife Nefertiti, leaving her, for the love we once bore for one another, the North Palace at my capital of Akhet-Aten and sufficient of gold and staff to conclude her days in dignity—”

  Now the terrible keening of my female relatives is joined and overwhelmed by a great wailing from the crowd which not even my fiercest glances can suppress. I had no idea she was so popular. But in due time, of course, curiosity quiets the unseemly clamor enough that my closing words can be heard.

  “—and take unto my side my brother, the Prince Smenkhkara, whom I declare to be, now and hereafter, forever and ever, Ankh-Kheperu-Ra, Co-Regent, Living Horus, Son of the Sun, King and Pharaoh of the Two Lands of Kemet, one with me in our hearts, bodies and all things.

  “And from the former Chief Wife Nefertiti I take her title of ‘Nefer-Neferu-Aten’—‘Fair Is the Goodness of the Aten’—and I hereby give and bestow it upon my brother, the King and Pharaoh Ankh-Kheperu-Ra Smenkhkara.”

  The wailing rises again but I shout above it, and curiosity, of course, again subdues it.

  “And to him I give the right and permission, forever and ever, to style himself ‘The Beloved of Akhenaten,’ for so”—and here my voice does openly tremble, because of the great gratitude and love I bear for him, and because of the great triumph I feel within me that we are at last free to live in truth before the world as you, O Aten, would have us do—“for so he is, and will ever be, to me.…

  “Thus do I, Nefer-Kheperu-Ra Akhenaten, Living Horus, Son of the Sun, King and Pharaoh of the Two Lands, decree it! People of Kemet, I give and commend to you the Co-Regent Ankh-Kheperu-Ra, who will be your true liege lord and will love and comfort me forever!”

  And turning to my brother, I kiss
him full upon the lips. And taking his hand, I lead him forward upon the platform and present him to our people.

  And now, suddenly, there is no more wailing from the crowd, neither is there any applause or greeting. Nothing but a deep and absolute silence, broken only by the gradually diminishing sobs of my women. And presently even those are stilled, and only silence—only nothing—only nothing beyond nothing—prevails in all the world.

  Smenkhkara stands looking out, at first calmly, bravely and defiantly. Then when there is no response from anywhere his straight back begins to slump a little, the proud carriage of his head diminishes. He flings me a sudden frightened glance, and at once I step forward beside him and speak in clear, untroubled tones to our people, who seem temporarily to love us not—but we do not care, for we love one another, and they will come to understand this, and to love us too.

  “We return now to Akhet-Aten,” I say. “May the great god Aten keep and comfort you. This do we, King Akhenaten and King Smenkhkara, desire for you. We leave you now, secure in his love for us, in which we know you join.”

  But still there is only nothing, and nothing beyond nothing; and so in a moment I say quietly to my brother, “Help me down.” And with a convulsive grasp that shows how shattered he is by our people’s apparent hostility, and how much he welcomes the opportunity to do something active in the face of it, he assists me down.

  I think they do not love us yet, but I think they will. For now they have no choice. We are King and Pharaoh, one heart, one mind, one body, and they must.

  Not looking back at anyone, not even the Family or anyone, we walk slowly, my hand upon his strong, supporting arm, through the motionless crowds to the landing stage. Silently and without expression the crewmen help us aboard. I raise my voice and cry: