by Overton, Max
"Counsel? Mother, I have any number of advisors and do not wish for more." Waenre's face took on a sullen expression. "I require my wife merely to be beautiful and to bear my children. I have two lovely daughters already but I need a son and heir to be king after me."
"Unless you are careful, Waenre Amenhotep, you will have no kingdom to leave to any future son and heir."
Waenre paled. "What do you mean, mother?"
"Why did you change the words of your coronation speech today?"
"He is king, honoured mother," Nefertiti interposed. "He may do as he wishes."
"That is what you are worried about? I added but a few words."
"Important words. What possessed you to add the Aten to your prayer to Amun?"
Waenre shrugged. "I like the Aten; he is a god of light, not like the other gods who live in dark temples served by their grasping priests. Why should I not pray to whom I like?"
"Who is the most powerful man in the Two Lands?"
Frowning, Waenre pursed his lips. "My father...and I." He thought for a moment. "I am, now that my father is sick and cannot rule."
"No, my son, you are not. Amenemhet, Hem-netjer and First Prophet of Amun, is the most powerful man in the land. It is within his hand to grant the blessings of the god, and deny them. At the ceremony today, he consecrated you as king, but he could just as easily have refused. You would not now be king if he had done so."
"That is foolishness, mother. If he had refused, another man would now be First Prophet--your brother Aanen perhaps, and I would still be king."
"And how would you have removed him? You could only do so with the permission of the god Amun, as he is Hem-netjer. And who is the only person who can approach the god? Yes, Amenemhet." Tiye shook her head wearily. "You spend your days in idle pursuits, in search of beauty, but you pay no attention to the real world, to the men around you."
Waenre breathed out hard, his lips vibrating. "What of it? Amenemhet did consecrate me, so there is nothing he can do now."
"Not to you, but what of your future son and heir? What if he decides to terminate our dynasty and set another family in our place?"
"Never!" Nefertiti hissed.
"He would not do that...he cannot. Our line is ancient and has the blessings of the gods. The people would rise up."
"Against the gods, my son? Amun is the king of gods here in Waset, and Amenemhet is his Hem-netjer." Tiye heaved herself up off the bed and waddled over to her son. She put her hands on his forearms and looked up into his sulky face. "My son, be discerning. Be mindful of the gods, Amun especially. Our family chose Amun as our god, above all others. Give him honour and riches, his First Prophet, too, and your reign will be long and glorious."
"I prefer the Aten. He is your god, too, mother. I learned of him as a child at your knee."
Tiye sighed, turned, and walked slowly back to the bed. "Yes. He is the god of the Khabiru, of my father Yuya, and I will always honour your father for allowing his worship to increase. However, do not let it go too far. Do not challenge the supremacy of Amun."
Waenre smiled, his full lips curving upward, though his eyes remained cold and bright. "And if the Aten is the only true god, what then? Have you ever seen a ram-headed god, mother? How about a green-faced god; or one with a jackal's head, or a hawk's?" He shook his head. "Nor will you. They either do not exist or, if they do, are far from the land of men. Yet you can see the Aten, the solar disk, any day. Look up in the sky. He exists. Why should I not worship him?"
Tiye glanced at Nefertiti, standing with her arm around Waenre.
"He is my husband, beloved mother," Nefertiti said simply. "And king of the Two Lands. I will give him my love, my support and my belief. If he says I should worship the Aten, then that is what I will do."
Tiye sat in silence, head down. Into the silence came the drip of water, increasing. "My waters have broken," she murmured. "It is time."
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Chapter Three
And so I was born. On the night of Neferkheperure Waenre Amenhotep's coronation, my mother Tiye ushered me into the world, the last but one child of Nebmaetre Amenhotep, now barely Lord of Two Rooms, let alone Two Lands.
I was brought before him, still slimed and blood-covered as was the custom, for my father to pronounce his blessing, to name his newest child. Of course, he could not speak but just lay on his bed staring, so Heqareshu, the overseer of nurses, said, and would not even look at me. So I was given no name and for the first three years of my life was addressed as "girl" or "you" or referred to just as "no-name".
I cannot tell you much of those early years for despite being precocious, as so many of our people are, I find that memory fades with the passing of the years--so many years now. I have lived to see another dynasty take its place on the throne of Kemet, our holy land made great again, and the death of every single person I knew as a child, save one. That one still lives, I think, though with a different name from the one forgotten by the world.
I have talked of my time as a royal princess in the Great Palace of Waset, and later of the Palace of the Aten in northern Akhet-Aten, yet few people can comprehend the realities. To live as a member of the royal family is to be separated from the common man, for even though we live, breathe and love surrounded by servants and courtiers, yet are they invisible, nothing but ghosts there to grant our every whim, no more noticeable than the furniture. To give an example: I have walked into a room and found my brother Waenre making love to his queen Nefertiti, while around them servants dusted, cleaned and talked. As far as they were concerned, they were alone in their bedchamber.
Having no name, and being beneath the notice of anyone important in my early years, I found myself in the company of the palace staff more than was strictly proper and I have always had this liking, almost a kinship with those of lesser station.
It may surprise you that my mother had little to do with me, as we Kemetu are known as a family oriented people. However, she devoted herself to her stricken husband and left me in the care of Heqareshu, the overseer of nurses, and the wet-nurses he provided for me. I was not neglected, just not loved--at least not for several years. I learned early to keep to myself. This, of course, made me quieter and more withdrawn. Any hope I might have had of obtaining a name by being noticed, receded.
As I have said before, my memories of the early years of Waenre Amenhotep's reign are patchy at best. There were many children in the palace, for although my father only sired seven children on my mother, he was, or had been, the Bull of Heru, with a herd of lesser wives. These offspring, too, were royal, though far removed from the line of succession. Their destiny lay within the boundless realms of court functionaries. They would become scribes and fan-bearers, stewards and masters of horse and household, being prohibited only from the succession. Only Smenkhkare was different. Five years older than me, he was the son of my father and his eldest daughter Sitamen.
I will mention here that my father had a sister called Sitamen, too. In the early days of his reign he had married his sister to enhance his title to the throne, but she died before bearing him any children. I have sometimes wondered whether he felt something for her, missed her perhaps, because he named his eldest daughter after her, later marrying her.
Her son Smenkhkare was a robust young boy with a wild sense of adventure. When I first left the baby-nursery and became a member of the palace children, he was their leader, though not the eldest. From the age of three to ten, the children were left to run free, though closely and unobtrusively watched at all times. Smenkhkare was a leader, often taking a select band of youngsters into parts of the palace out of bounds to children, or even outside the palace walls.
When he was caught, as he almost invariably was, not being able to keep quiet about his exploits, he was beaten. Even a prince, and son of the king, must learn discipline and his uncle Ay, the Queen's brother, had a heavy hand. After the first time, though, Smenkhkare bore his punishment st
oically, refusing to shed tears or cry out until he was alone.
I was beneath his notice of course, being one of many young girls and him the leader of the older children. It was several years before he befriended me, but by then, circumstances had changed for both of us. He was being prepared as a possible successor to his brother Waenre and I for a fate of considerably less appeal.
We all ran naked, boys and girls alike, our heads shaved except for the side-lock of youth. Clothing is not necessary in our climate and, except for formal and ceremonial occasions, is often ignored, even by adults. This is not to say that Kemetu men and women lack modesty, but rather that we develop a carefree attitude to nudity and sex.
I was given my first name when I was four years old. I can be certain of my age as it was the year before the king Waenre, his beautiful queen Nefertiti and their three daughters, Meryetaten, Meketaten and Ankhesenpaaten moved to the new city of Akhet-Aten, dedicated to the new god of our house. The king started searching for a place that was special to his god as soon as he became regent. He started by dedicating a temple to the Aten near to Amun's grand temple. Then a report came from downriver of a place where the morning sun rose through a notch in the line of cliffs. It was a barren place, the nearest village being a place called Akhet-Re. He looked for himself and laid out the plans for a magnificent city on the crescent plain beneath the cliffs, dedicated to the sun disk.
I did not yet fully understand everything that was going on around me, of course, but I knew something terrible and disturbing was happening. People whispered and gossiped, falling silent whenever a member of our family appeared, even the children. I became uncomfortable in the presence of others at about this time and withdrew into my own company, shunning the other boys and girls, playing by myself in the palace gardens.
I should mention that the palace I called home was not the magnificent new one built by my father on the Western Bank, but rather the older one on the edge of the city of Waset that had been the abode of kings for centuries. When my father suffered his illness, my mother moved him back to the old palace to be nearer the centre of government. Naturally, the entire household moved with them, and so I knew little of the new palace until I was grown.
The old palace at Waset boasted a garden that was widely regarded as the most magnificent in the world. As well as stately trees and carefully tended beds of flowers and fishponds, was a menagerie filled with exotic animals from all parts of the kingdom and from foreign countries. Kings would send gifts to Nebmaetre, and for a while, to Waenre too; often including animals like a leopard on a leash and collar, a pair of hunting cheetahs, a rhinoceros or giraffe, or a baboon. These gifts, along with other animals captured by the king's hunters, ended up in cages in the palace gardens for nobles to gawk at and point.
I rarely visited the animals. Not because I did not like animals but rather because I could not bear to see them locked up. The ones that were not locked up, gazelles and baby animals, were popular with the other children and, being shy, I seldom put myself forward to pet them. I generally stayed at the other end of the garden. There was a fishpond there, set about with shrubbery and papyrus and shadowed by a magnificent tamarind tree. It dropped leaves into the pond, and pods. I would fish the pods out and break them open, sucking out the sweet-sour brown pulp.
There were animals there, too, though none that would interest a king or even the other children. Butterflies flitted above the flowerbeds, bees too, and a myriad of other insects. Lizards scuttled on the sandy paths, basking in the early morning and late afternoon sun, or seeking the shade in the heat of the day. Frogs lived in the ponds; and schools of little silver fish thrilled me with their precise movements as I lay on my belly in the dust, watching them. Kingfishers took their dues from the ponds and brightly coloured dragonflies hovered and darted, dipping down to the water surface or clinging like jewels to the tips of the reeds. A female cobra lived in the reeds and I sometimes glimpsed her black shiny eyes watching me, her tongue flickering like summer lightning. She never bothered me and I came to think of her as Wadjet, the cobra goddess. After all, the cobra is the symbol of royalty, the uraeus coiled about the brow of the king. I took her watchfulness as a sign that the gods still remembered me.
The air hung still in those days, heavy and scented with exotic perfumes from the flowers all about me. Left alone, I turned my mind to the tiny wonders that lay all about me. I have always been curious. When I started my schooling I would drive my teachers to distraction wanting to know about things for which there was no real answer. Why was the sky blue? Why were leaves green? Why did crickets sing but butterflies not? It was never enough for me to be told it was because the gods had made it that way. I looked at the frenetic ants, listened to the different songs of grasshoppers and cicadas, stared into the intricacies of a flower, smelled their varied perfumes, marveled at the shimmering colours in a tiny blue butterfly's wing, or watched, fascinated, as two lizards mated.
One day, on a day that I came to know as my first naming day, I played in the dust in the shade of my great tamarind tree, watching one of the great scarab beetles roll a ball of dung across the ground. It would back itself against the roughly-shaped ball, gripping it with its hind legs and pushing backward. Not seeing where it was going, it often ran into an obstacle, scrabbling futilely at the ground. Eventually it would let go of the ball and investigate the obstruction before taking hold again and trundling off in another direction. The beetle moved out of the shade and into the bright sun and I followed on my hands and knees, my attention riveted.
A shadow fell across me and I looked up to see the king Waenre Amenhotep and his wife Nefertiti standing over me. I sat back on my haunches and stared at them, not saying a word. The king smiled at me and, disengaging his arm from around his wife, squatted down beside me in the dust.
"What is your name, child?"
I shook my head, staring solemnly up at my elder brother.
"I think she is your youngest sister, beloved," Nefertiti said. "She does not have a name as she was never given one."
"And what are you doing, child? Out here, without even a nurse to look after you?"
I pointed at the beetle, now jammed up against a fallen seedpod. It heaved the ball of dung up, only to have it slip sideways and down again.
"He struggles so hard. I want to help him but I don't know how to," I whispered. "That is why I watch him, so I may learn."
Waenre laughed. "And what have you learned by watching him, little one?"
"He is beautiful. He looks just like a dull beetle but if you look close you can see lovely colours--green, blue, red."
"What else?"
"He works hard, never resting, pushing his ball of dung across the ground."
"And why does he do that?"
"My uncle Aanen says it is because he is the god Khepri and he pushes the ball of the sun across the sky each day." I was repeating what my uncle had said but I did not understand it.
"That is what the priests say." Waenre nodded. He put out a finger and removed the tamarind pod obstruction. The scarab resumed its journey. "It is hard to imagine this little beetle contains a god, though. What do you think?"
I said nothing, just screwed up my face in thought.
Waenre got to his feet and brushed the dust and twigs from his knees. "What about you, beautiful one?" he asked Nefertiti. "What do you think? Is this beetle a god?"
Nefertiti smiled, her eyes fixed on her husband's face, though one slim hand strayed to her left ear, lightly stroking the two fresh piercings in her lobe. "Perhaps a very small god."
Waenre laughed. "Yes, very small and without much power." He stared down at the insect by his feet for several moments. "I could stretch out my foot and crush him beneath my sandal. Would that mean I had killed a god?" He nudged the dung ball with his toe, sending the ball rolling and the scarab end over end as it frantically tried to recover its balance. "I wonder if other gods would be that easy to kill."
I put out a hand
and touched Waenre's leg. "Please don't kill him."
He looked down at me, a bemused expression on his elongated face. "Why not, child? If he truly is a god, as the priests say, I could not kill him. In fact I would be struck down for my presumption."
"I love him," I said. "Please don't kill him."
Waenre nodded. "As you wish, though I have never heard of anyone loving a dung beetle. Perhaps you wish to be his wife?" He laughed loudly, joined a few seconds later by Nefertiti. "Let them be married, scarab and...and no-name."
"Scarab and Scarab, beloved husband," murmured Nefertiti.
"Indeed, beautiful one, that shall be her name from this day. Scarab." Waenre grinned down at me. "How do you like your name, little one?"
I turned the name over in my mind. Although not a beautiful name like so many of the little girls I knew, it was at least mine. "Thank you," I whispered.
"Run along now, little Scarab. I wish to sit and talk to my wife in this beautiful shade."
I left them there, turning back as I entered the palace. They were still standing where I had left them, staring down at the ground. When I returned to my tree the next day I found the scattered wing cases and horny shell of a scarab in that spot, picked clean by the ants. I buried the husks of Khepri but thought no more of it at the time, certainly made no connection between the dead beetle and my brother.
It was only later that I wondered whether my brother had, on that hot day, in the dust beneath the tamarind tree, braved the gods of Kemet by killing a very small one beneath his sandal.
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Chapter Four
Ahhotep, master craftsman of the glass-blowers guild, wiped the sweat from his face with one broad hand as he peered into the depths of the glowing kiln in the courtyard of his small shop. Waves of heat blasted out, rippling the air as if the desert sun had somehow been plucked from the sky and thrust into his ovens. He adjusted the position of the bronze cup that lay in the fiery bed of charcoal, wincing as the heat was transmitted through the wooden handles to his calloused palms. Naked except for a small leather apron, his bare arms, legs and torso were covered with a myriad of scars, mementoes of a lifetime spent in the proximity of hot glass.
