The Amarnan Kings, Book 1: Scarab - Akhenaten

by Overton, Max

  Pa-it glanced around. "I would not voice those thoughts too much, wife. Such thoughts are dangerous."

  "Yes, husband." Asenath sat quietly for a few minutes. "I would like to see for myself though."

  Pa-it laughed loudly, waking the baby, who squalled until Imiu clutched him to her naked body and calmed him. "Very unlikely. We will never be in Waset, dear wife, and I cannot imagine prince Amenhotep coming anywhere near our little village of Akhet-Re. What possible interest could he have in this place?"

  He settled back against the trunk of the tree and looked out across the fields and the river, toward the eastern cliffs and the notch called the Horizon-of-Re.

  ***

  Nebhotep, physician, newly appointed to the court from the House of Life, prodded gingerly at the bloody mess in front of him. A Nubian slave had fallen headfirst from a tree in the palace grounds whence he was attempting to rescue a kitten belonging to the young daughter of a court official, and cracked his head open on a stone. The man was unconscious now, his skin a pallid grey beneath his glossy black skin, his skin cold and his breathing uneven.

  "He will not live," said an older man, also in physician's robes. "It is a perfect opportunity to practice your skills. Open his head."

  Nebhotep felt the bones of the skull grinding beneath his fingertip. He grimaced and mopped at the blood with an old already-sodden rag. "I do not like to play with a man's life, Shepseskare. If he is dying, then we should let him die in peace."

  "Nonsense. Four out of five people whose heads are opened die of the experience within three days. The fifth may live a little longer. What have you got to lose by doing the operation?"

  "If everyone dies, then would it not be better to do nothing?"

  "Nebhotep, you are newly elevated to the illustrious ranks of court physician, largely, I am told, for your skill with the knife and your knowledge of herbs. Do not disappoint me or you will find yourself scraping out a living in some slum near the waterfront. Open his head."

  The young physician picked up a sharp bronze knife and delicately shaved the slave's head, carefully guiding the blade around the swellings. When it was as clear of hair as he could make it he swabbed the surface with water and mopped up the oozing blood with a rag.

  "Go ahead," Shepseskare said, pointing with his finger. "A cross-shaped incision here."

  Nebhotep cut, a torrent of blood released by his knife, rapidly soaking the mattress. He pulled back the flaps of scalp, exposing the broken pieces of skull, the edges grinding together as he dabbed at the blood.

  "Take the forceps and lift the pieces of bone out. That one first."

  Nebhotep picked up the instrument, flicking a piece of dirt off with one finger, then gently inserting the tips and pulling a small section of bone free with a gentle sucking sound. A gush of dark blood erupted from the hole in the skull and the slave groaned. He removed another, then a third. The flow of blood lessened until the only blood issuing from the gaping wound was the fresh bright blood from the cut edges of the scalp.

  "That is the brain," Shepseskare said, poking the bloody grey wrinkles with a finger. "Nobody knows what it does, but if you injure it, you die. Wash it out with water mixed with honey and garlic."

  Nebhotep obeyed, moving deftly and carefully. The water washed flecks of congealed blood and tiny chips of bone from the surface of the brain. When it was clean, he gently dabbed the spongy surface. "We will need something to cover the brain. In place of the bone. Beaten silver would be best." As he dabbed, the blood trickling from the cut edges of the scalp lessened and stopped.

  "Silver? On a slave? Even copper would be too expensive." Shepseskare lowered his ear to the slave's chest and listened. "Besides," he said matter-of-factly. "The man is dead."

  Nebhotep stepped back from the body and placed his bloody knife and forceps back in his physician's linen roll. "Perhaps if we had got to him sooner?"

  "As I said, he would still have died. Opening the skull is fatal but just occasionally it works." Shepseskare grinned and wiped his hands on the slave's kilt. "It is a really impressive operation too and as long as you recite lots of prayers to the gods, nobody will blame you for the inevitable death. It is in the hands of the gods, not yours. Were this anyone but a slave, we could command a fat fee. Still, it was worth it for the practice, Nebhotep. You did well." He hurried to the door, calling back over his shoulder. "Clean up and join me in the wine house. I will buy you a cup."

  Nebhotep put away his instruments and washed the blood from his hands and arms. "There must be a way to do this so the patient lives," he muttered.

  ***

  Khensthoth the scribe tugged at his clean white linen robe of office and pointed toward the marshes at the edge of the river fifty paces from where he stood. "Observe the ibis, sacred to the god Djehuti, patron deity of scribes. The god has chosen this place. We will sit here and be instructed by him."

  Despite the presence of the sacred birds in the open spaces, Khensthoth led his small band of youths into the shade of a stand of palm trees a hundred paces further down the goat track. He sat on the closely cropped grass and gestured, waiting for the youths to seat themselves in a semi-circle around him.

  "Take out your pallets and pens. We shall start with an exercise on the evils of strong drink." Khensthoth started talking; the syllables of the set composition flowing sonorously off his tongue. The scratching of reed pens on papyrus filled the air like a chorus of crickets. The only other sounds came from the wide river, where a fresh breeze from the south forced a barge traveling up-river to furl its sails and unship its oars. The grunts and curses of the rowers came muffled across the choppy waters.

  Khensthoth came to the end of his recitation and waited until his pupils had waved their scraps of third-grade papyrus in the air, drying the ink. "Pepy, collect up the scripts, I shall mark them now." Opening the linen bag beside him he took out a sturdy copper cup and handed it to one of the youths.

  "Menkure, you and Psamtek go down to the river and fetch me a drink of water. I thirst."

  The youth bowed and accepted the cup. "Yes master." He turned and ran, the other boy at his heels.

  "Mind it is from the river itself, Menkure," Khensthoth called after him. "I do not want stinking water from the marshes." He turned to the pile of papyrus and picked up the first one, running his eye over the symbols. Shaking his head, he scratched a comment in the margin before going on to the next.

  While he worked, the other youths lounged in the shade and plucked grass stems, chewing them and talking quietly amongst themselves. It was a rare treat to be allowed out of the city and they made the most of it, enjoying the cool breezes and absence of prying officials. Khensthoth was an experienced and senior scribe attached to the court of Nebmaetre Amenhotep and they all realized the honour of being his pupils. Their fathers, court officials also, had called in favors giving their sons access to the learned man. Just as important, for the boys at least, was his fondness for the river banks and his interest in fresh air rather than the stuffy confines of the classroom. It sometimes led to outings such as this, and a relaxation of discipline for the day.

  Khensthoth finished his marking just as Menkure and Psamtek arrived back from the river with a cup of cool, clear water. The scribe thanked them and drained the cup, smacking his lips with pleasure. He gathered the boys around him once more and went over the exercise with them, pointing out errors in their writing and sentence construction. At length, he motioned them to put their pallets and pens away.

  "Let us think back to yesterday. Just before I was called away into the presence of the queen, we started to contemplate the hieroglyphs of protection. Who can tell me the names of these hieroglyphs? Pepy?"

  "The Ankh, master. Also the Sa."

  "Very good, Pepy. And the third? Re-wer?"

  "Er, I'm sorry, master. I can only think of Sa and Ankh."

  "Never mind." Khensthoth looked around his little group. "Menkure?"

  "Shen, master."


  "Very good. And can anyone tell me what these signs look like?"

  Psamtek raised his hand. "The Ankh is like crossed staves with a loop at the top." He drew in the air with his finger. "It means life, master."

  "Indeed it does, Psamtek, but more besides. Listen closely all of you. The Ankh represents the connection all life has to that which has gone before, the umbilicus. It is the sign of life infused into humans from the divine spark and thence from human to human. The Ankh refers to that which is protected, renewed and vitalized; it is the descent of the eternal principle, the Atum, into the physical plane."

  "Master, you have told us before that every hieroglyph comes from a common object or animal. What does the Ankh come from?"

  "Good, Pepy. The Ankh is a loop of rope bound to the horizontal bar of reality with the tail hanging down. It binds the spiritual to the earthly horizon." Khensthoth picked up a stick and sketched the symbol in a patch of bare earth, pointing out the parts of the hieroglyph. "Now, who can tell me about the Sa?"

  Menkure raised his hand. "It is like the Ankh but without the crossbar, is it not, master?"

  Khensthoth nodded. "It too derives from a loop, but this time of woven rushes." He looked around the group of youths. "Who has been on boats? PenMa'at? Your father is Controller of the King's Wharves; can you tell me of woven rushes?"

  "Yes, master." PenMa'at frowned, thinking hard. "Fishermen use woven rushes to keep themselves afloat if they fall in the river."

  "Just so. A woven loop of rushes, bound with a rope, protects fishermen from drowning. The Sa comes into being when the horizontal plane of reality is fastened by the cosmic cord, the divine principle, to form a protective coil. The universal force that binds all things together forms a center, a mooring post, a place of stability binding heaven and earth."

  "And the last symbol, master? The Shen?"

  "The Shen is a circle, representing endless time, eternity, bound to a horizontal bar, the earthly plane once more. It protects life by isolating and enclosing it, defining that which it surrounds, defending it against hostile forces. Can anyone tell me where the Shen is most commonly seen?"

  A slightly built youth with a cast in one eye shyly raised a hand. "I have seen it, master. My father has told me of it when he takes me to the king's tomb."

  Khensthoth smiled. "Indeed, Raia. As son of the Controller of the King's Funeral Artists, I would expect you to know. Tell us all."

  "It is the cartouche, master. The loop around the royal name."

  "Indeed. The king, as god-on-earth, is eternal, and his name enclosed by the cartouche, by the Shen symbol, is defined and isolated from common men, protected against all disaster."

  Menkure put up his hand, abruptly dropped it before raising it again tentatively. "But if the king is protected, master, how is it that he was struck down by the gods?"

  "Shh . The gods had nothing to do with that. Amenhotep is a god himself, would he strike himself down? No, it is the earthly principle that is the cause. All men die, even kings who are part-god and part-men. It is the earthly part that weakens their godhead and limits their span of years. Were it not for the protection offered by the Shen ..." Khensthoth's voice trailed off with a shudder. "That will be enough for today. Gather your palettes." He rose, brushing down his robes of office.

  "Tomorrow, we have permission to sit in the law courts and observe scribes in action as the young king enacts justice. Chief Advisor Ay has been most gracious and I trust none of you will disgrace me in front of the king."

  To a chorus of denials and protestations of trust, Khensthoth led his young charges along the goat track and up through the fields toward the towering walls of Waset.

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  * * *

  Chapter Five

  The young king Waenre and Nefertiti, their three young daughters accompanying them, strolled slowly through the gardens surrounding the two great temples of Amun. Behind them walked a nurse, holding their youngest child Ankhesenpaaten, and the king's advisor Ay. The royal family often went out together, particularly in the cool mornings or in the dusk, taking in the sights or just enjoying each other's company. The king's advisor and father of the queen, Ay, disapproved of this practice but wisely held his counsel close. This particular day, shortly after the rising of blessed Aten, the king had decided to visit the nearly-completed temple of his god.

  Shortly after his coronation, Waenre diverted vast amounts of gold from the temples of Amun, over the protests of the priests and set about having the land cleared between the two principle temples of the god of Waset. The priests were outraged and stepped up their protests. The removal of their wealth was bad enough, but now this minor god Aten was to be flaunted within sight of the temple steps. Waenre listened politely to all the protests and complaints before saying quietly, "The god requires me to do this," and ending all discussion.

  The sacred garden between the temples of Amun was leveled, the carefully tended shrubs and trees, the flowering plants and ponds were, without ceremony, uprooted or filled in, the site razed in preparation for the building. Vast quantities of stone poured in from the quarries--granite from Qerert and fine white limestone from Roan near Men Nefer--brought by barge before being dragged on rollers through the lands dedicated to the god Amun. Skilled stonemasons, artisans and architects saw to the construction and with the deep coffers of Amun at their disposal, the temple rose swiftly.

  Waenre stopped in front of the building site and stared up at the magnificent stone temple rising from the scraped and bare earth of the former garden. Despite the imposing edifices of the existing temple complex, the one dedicated to the Aten stood out. Vast columns rose to an ornately carved rim bearing complex patterns of leaves, lotus blossoms and animals chiseled from the stone. Above the entrance, a huge disk extended rays downward, each ending in a stylized hand. Unlike the outsides of the other temples, the one to Aten blazed with bright colours--gold and red, green and blue. The radiance of the great gold sun disk above the doors caught the morning sun and reflected it into the courtyard, bathing the king in its brilliance.

  Waenre raised his hands toward the disk, his eyes closed and long head thrown back. A long sigh escaped him. After several minutes, he lowered his hands and opening his eyes, turned to Nefertiti.

  "The Aten is here, my beloved. He accepts his new home."

  Nefertiti moved closer and put her arms around her husband, laying her head on his bare shoulder. "It is magnificent, husband. A truly worthy offering to our god." The two young princesses, Meryetaten and Meketaten ran over and hugged their parents' legs. Nefertiti lowered her arms to stroke her daughters' heads before lifting her head and turning toward the other onlookers. "Do you not agree, father?"

  Ay turned from his contemplation of the temples of Amun and the gathering of white-robed priests watching them. "Indeed, majesties." He bowed stiffly. "It is an extraordinary building."

  "Not just a building," said Waenre. "The abode of the Aten." He led the way up the broad steps and into the temple, passing between the giant pillars.

  Ay looked up with some surprise. As a priest of Amun he was used to the cavernous gloom of the temples, the multitude of carved gods and paintings over every part of the walls flickering and moving in the torchlight. The interior of the temple of the Aten astounded him. Looking up, he saw the tops of the columns carved into stylized lotus blossoms etched against an azure sky. Sunlight, rich and golden-pure poured down, filling the vast interior with light and warmth.

  "Where is the roof? And why are there so few pillars? The builders will not be able to lay stone across these gaps without it cracking."

  Waenre smiled delightedly. "There will be no roof. I cannot worship my father without seeing him in the sky above me."

  Ay grunted and turned on his heel, scanning the walls of the vast hall. Only a scattering of workmen remained, cleaning up scattered debris, sweeping the floors or painting the far wall. "Where are the artists, majesty? Where are all the religious paintin
gs? I see only pictures of plants and animals. And the sanctuary where the god resides? I do not see it."

  "No religious paintings, father," Nefertiti said. "Only the glories of the Aten's creation to lift up our hearts in a song of praise."

  "There is no sanctuary either," Waenre added. "How can you think that the sun itself could live in a building when he is there before us in the sky?" He strode forward over the stone floor toward the great mural on the end wall.

  Another great sun-disk blazed from the wall, near the top where the limestone facings cut a line across the blue of the heavens. Rays with hands extended down as with the one outside the temple, but these hands clutched the ankh, the protective sign of life, holding it poised about bas-relief carvings of human figures dressed in the robes and crowns of royalty.

  Ay stared at the carved figures for several minutes before letting his eyes travel slowly around the vast chamber, seeing for the first time the statues set back into shallow niches. He glanced at the king then back at the statues, his mouth tightening as his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "The statues," he muttered to himself. "What have the sculptors done?"

  Nefertiti crossed to her father and put her arm around the old man. "It is a new thing," she said smiling. "We portray life as it is."

  "But this...this is not seemly. No king of Kemet should be held up to ridicule. The sculptors must be punished." Ay put out a hand and ran it over the smooth stone face of the statue in front of him. The carving was of the king, without a doubt, but surely the king was not grotesque. Ay glanced at Waenre again, standing in the same pose as the statue, though a slight smile replaced the stern look of the stone. Looking away, he saw the statue for what it was. A long narrow face, angular nose and chin, with hooded eyes and pouting lips stared blindly back at Ay. He dropped his eyes to a narrow stone chest with more than a hint of breasts, a swollen belly and rounded hips above misshapen legs.