The Amarnan Kings, Book 1: Scarab - Akhenaten

by Overton, Max

  "We want our gods."

  Akhenaten stared at the scene below him, panic and anger wrestling for control of his face. He turned to Paatenemheb. "General, control this crowd. Send in your soldiers."

  Paatenemheb strode to the Window and took in the riot below him. He nodded and whirled, running toward the ramp into the King's residence. A few minutes later he emerged onto the street in command of two Tens of his soldiers. He shouted a command and the men formed up in ranks, shields high and spears leveled. The crowd drew back, the chanting faltering as they stared at the armed men.

  "Disperse," Paatenemheb bellowed, the gold of his chain of praise bouncing and gleaming on his brown chest. "On the King's orders, disperse now."

  The crowd, outnumbering the soldiers a hundred to one, swayed and drew back. Around the edges, men and women eased away from their fellows before scurrying for the safety of the side streets and the public gardens. The off-duty soldiers in the crowd formed up into rough ranks but milled about uncertainly, wondering whether to join the general's men or just to slip off before anyone in authority recognized them.

  "Disperse," Paatenemheb said again. "Men, forward one pace."

  The threat of the sharp spears sent the front lines of the crowd reeling back and the mass of people shivered as if breaking up. Then a stone hurtled out of the back and thumped against the shield of one of the soldiers.

  "Give us back our gods." More stones appeared, showering the soldiers. One fell with blood streaming from his head. Paatenemheb dragged him back and took his spear, taking his place in the line.

  "Steady," he growled. Another shower of stones clattered on shields and the crowd surged forward. "Ten paces," Paatenemheb shouted. "Charge."

  The soldiers gave a blood-curdling yell and leapt forward. The eighth pace carried them into the front ranks of the crowd, the shields slamming into bodies and heads, the spears slashing forward, stabbing deep and pulling free in a welter of blood. On the tenth pace the soldiers stopped dead, the crowd reeling back in a panic, leaving their dead and dying in the dusty street.

  "Disperse."

  This time the crowd obeyed, pulling back, then as the space between the motionless soldiers and the people increased, turning tail and running. Within minutes, the street was deserted except for the bodies of the dead and wounded.

  Paatenemheb led his soldiers off the street and back into the King's residence at a trot, leaving the physicians to save those they could.

  Akhenaten stared down at the empty street with tears in his eyes. Beside him, the younger girls clung to their mother, sobbing. The older girls, Meryetaten and Meketaten looked down at the casualties with great interest. The king sighed and put his arms out to gather his family to himself. He turned them away from the Window of Appearance and led them back toward the Harem and the Queen's residence.

  A few minutes later, Paatenemheb walked into the broad room, rubbing blood stains off his hands with a clean napkin. He threw it at the feet of a servant and strode over to the table, ripping himself off a handful of roast goose.

  "You are hurt?" Ay asked.

  Paatenemheb shook his head, chewing his food noisily. "Not mine. Those are good soldiers," he added. "Disciplined. They should be rewarded."

  Ay nodded. "I will see to it." He motioned the servants away and moved over to the table, pouring a cup of beer. "Has the king taken leave of his senses?"

  "It would appear he has, but the king is still the king."

  "He cannot destroy Amun, he is a god."

  "If he is a god then he cannot be destroyed. If he is only something the priests have dreamed up to gain power, then ..." Paatenemheb shrugged. "I am just a soldier; I obey the orders of my king."

  "You do not believe in the gods?"

  "I don't know. I have never seen one." He ate the last bit of goose and poured himself a cup of beer, swallowing it in three gulps. "Ay, you should be careful what you say. These are delicate times and strong opinions either way could land you in trouble."

  "And what of the old king, Nebmaetre Amenhotep? This action of his son has just robbed him of his name and his power."

  "I don't think that will be a problem much longer."

  Ay raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

  Paatenemheb smiled. "You have just come up from Waset. You tell me."

  "The old king is dying? He was well when I left."

  "A messenger arrived last night. Overland by horse. No doubt he overtook you on the river. Amenhotep has been struck by the gods again. He is lying senseless in his bed and the physicians have been summoned to open his head. It is not expected he will survive long." The general shrugged. "He may already be dead."

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  Chapter Sixteen

  Waset lay silent and subdued in the heat, like a wounded lion panting under the African sun. The city itself showed signs of neglect--no pennants flew from the palace, no smoke from the sacred fires spiraled heavenward with offerings of incense for the gods, and the streets lay littered and unkempt, the docks crowded with goods from all parts of the crumbling empire. The people carried on their normal lives as best they could, if only because few could afford not to, but there was little enthusiasm shown. Only the elderly could remember the last time a king had crossed the river and none could even imagine a time when the gods had been rendered so powerless.

  King Nebmaetre Amenhotep lay in the House of Death. For forty days he had lain in the natron, giving back the water of his body to the land, relinquishing the yellow fat built up over a lifetime of good living. Now he was back in the temple of his namesake god, titular god of his House, his organs dried and placed in costly alabaster jars, his body cavities packed full of rich and expensive spices, his eyeballs shrunken and sunken behind brittle eyelids, turned back in his head as if in contemplation of the resins and incense that filled his cranium. His limbs were swaddled in fine linen, wrapped and bound with interspersed printed prayers and invocations to the gods, amulets and fine jewels, gold leaf, beaten silver and copper, each layer fixed in place with resins and naphtha.

  The Uadjat amulet was placed above the right eye, the Ursh, or 'amulet of the pillow' placed under the neck, the Usekh collar fixed in place and the Ab, made of hard green schist placed over the heart, ensuring that this vital organ would remain with the soul in the inner life. The Djed pillar, made of finest carnelian and gilded, was dipped in the juice of ankhamu or rose flowers and placed above the stomach, in line with the vertebral column. The priests of the House of Death continued the wrapping, chanting the prayers and blessing the amulets as each protective emblem was placed in its designated position. The four sons of Heru, then the Thet, Uadj, Shuti, Shen and Sa followed, each piece carved of durable mineral or fashioned from glowing gold. Finally the Ahat, a round gold disc, was placed beneath the head. It was inscribed with the four sacred names that preserve the body's heat and its power would cause flames to burst forth from the king's head in the shadow world, granting him entry to any portal.

  The body rested now, arms crossed over his chest, bandaged hands clutching the crook and flail, symbols of royalty. A golden mask, sculptured and painted, in formal Nemes headdress, the two guardians of the royal crown prominent, covered the smoothed and rounded featureless face of the body. Nekhebet, the vulture, shaded the royal head with outstretched wings, and Wadjet, the cobra reared as if to strike any that would disturb the king's rest.

  Amenhotep lay in the House of Death, adjunct of the temple of Amun, despite the edict issued by his son Akhenaten two days after the old king's death. Although the young king had ordered the temples closed and the name of Amun to be removed from the sight of men, no-one had yet dared to enforce his command. Akhenaten stayed in his city of Akhet-Aten, and the priests of Amun refused to give way to a man who they openly called heretical and cursed by the gods.

  Between the two opposing forces that threatened to rip Kemet asunder, the old king lay awaiting his burial, perhaps dreaming of happier times.
No-one doubted his Ka had already passed through the trials and tribulations of the underworld and was at one with the gods. His heart had been weighed against the feather of truth and found to be lighter, for Amenhotep had been a good king, an upright and honest man, a god in whom even the lowliest peasant could trust. If he could be faulted for any one thing, it was for leaving his beloved Kemet in the grip of his only son.

  Seventy days Amenhotep lay dreaming in the House of Death and now it was time for his burial. His body, wrapped and preserved for eternity, encased in golden coffins in the likeness of the king, was transported across the river to the West bank where it lay for a day in the grand funerary temple. The rock tomb lay waiting in the dry Valley across the river where all the kings of the Two Lands spent eternity. Since the king died, the tomb, on which work had started nearly forty years before when Amenhotep succeeded his father Tuthmosis, had been the site of intense activity. It was cleaned thoroughly, every trace of rock dust and rubble removed, the paintings touched up so every colour gleamed as if new, the soot on the ceilings from years of smoking torches scrubbed off, the tomb furnishings sorted and dusted, arranged for occupancy. Hundreds of Ushabtiu dolls, models of every servant the king could possibly need in the afterlife, were blessed and imbued with life by the priests and placed where the king could call on them when Ka and Ba were reunited. Tables were laid out for the funerary food and drink that the relatives would consume, though the food and drink itself: rich wines, roast meats, baked breads, freshly fermented barley beer and delicious fruits, still lay in the palace kitchens, waiting to be transported across the river in the royal barge, together with the foods that would accompany the dead king in his voyage through eternity. All was in readiness. Only the king was missing, the new king, the successor, the 'one-who-opens-the-mouth'.

  On the seventieth day, king Akhenaten and his queen Nefertiti arrived on the royal barge from Akhet-Aten. Despite being the dead king's only living son, saving the young princes Smenkhkare and Tutankhaten, Akhenaten had stayed away from Waset during the period of Preparation, leaving all the details to the care of his mother Tiye and uncle Ay. Now he arrived in the somber city in the late afternoon, the cliffs of the Western desolation already casting long shadows across the river.

  On the royal wharf, a delegation of white-garbed priests met the royal party, representatives of all the gods, the priests of Amun prominent among them, their wealth and position openly flaunted. Akhenaten's eyes opened wide at the sight, then his fists clenched on the railing of the barge and his eyes glittered in rage. He strode down the gangplank onto the wharf and confronted Ay.

  "What are they doing here?" he growled. "I gave orders that the worship of all gods was to cease and their priests disbanded. The false god Amun was to be destroyed and his wealth confiscated. I pronounced this two months ago. Why are the priests here now, mocking me?"

  "They do not mock you, golden one," Ay replied, bowing low. "It is just that your illustrious father Amenhotep must be buried with all the rites attendant on his position as God-on-earth, and who else can perform these rites except the priests? In your absence, your holy mother and I took it upon ourselves to rule on this."

  Akhenaten ground his teeth and glared at the company of priests. Amenemhet, the First Prophet of Amun caught his eye and bowed with a small smile on his face. The king turned away and strode across to the waiting litters with Nefertiti and climbed inside, drawing the curtains. Slaves rushed them up to the palace.

  The king and queen emerged just after sunset and walked down to the wharf, attended by Ay and Tiye, together with all the immediate members of the royal family. Smenkhkare, his side-lock of youth newly shaved off, walked in quiet dignity behind the adults, Scarab followed, together with Iset, daughter and wife of the late king, and a nurse carrying the toddler Tutankhaten. Notable by their absence were the daughters of Akhenaten and Nefertiti. On being asked, Nefertiti had explained.

  "They are too young and I do not wish them to be tainted by the presence of the old, false gods."

  The royal party boarded the barge and they cast off, teams of slaves rowing them swiftly across the river in the gathering darkness to where a blaze of red-gold torches burned in the City of the Dead. The body of the dead king was brought out from the funerary temple built by and dedicated to Nebmaetre, a team of slaves man-handling the heavy gilded sarcophagus onto the funerary sledge. Oxen pulled it away over the sands and loose rubble into the Valley of Kings, the mourners following behind. Jackals shattered the silence as they entered the valley, their eerie cries calling to Inpu, the jackal-headed god of death. They passed the entrance to the main valley where so many kings of the Two Lands lay dreaming in death and made for the lonelier Western Valley where the old king had his tomb waiting.

  Priests of Amun, wearing the ceremonial white robes and specially prepared papyrus sandals, leopard-skin capes draped over their shoulders, carried pottery lamps, twisted flax fibers dipped in a reservoir of fine oil casting a reddish flickering light over the procession. Akhenaten followed, his features cast in mixed expressions of sorrow and anger, Nefertiti on his arm and the grieving widow Tiye by his side. Ay came next, walking alongside and supporting the ancient Tjaty Ramose, then Smenkhkare, and lastly the lesser women of the family, Iset, Scarab and the nurse Abar, with Tutankhaten in her arms. Behind them, not part of the procession but present to perform necessary manual tasks, walked dozens of strong slaves. A military escort surrounded them, Paatenemheb leading, though he commanded out of respect for Amenhotep rather than necessity. Paramessu accompanied him, watching the royal family in fascination. The two officers had brought down an honour guard from the Northern Legions, trusting their own men above the doubtful abilities of the local Amun Legion.

  Far above them, on the crumbling cliffs surrounding the burial grounds, other eyes watched the funeral procession. Several groups of shadowy figures watched with great interest the proceedings unfurling below, their hearts beating fast at the thought of all the gold and jewels that lay buried in the open tomb. For now, they would watch and wait, but in the nights that lay ahead, when the first fervor of the guards wore off, they too would pay a visit to the sealed tomb of king Amenhotep, breaking down the doors so they could stare at the sarcophagus, wonder at the treasures buried with him and plunder his belongings as a fee for their trouble.

  The procession arrived at the tomb. Amidst the wasteland of rock and rubble, stone steps descended into the valley floor. From the chambers beneath, a rich golden light flooded out, bathing the surrounding landscape and casting deep shadows. Paatenemheb's soldiers spread out to guard the king's resting place while the slaves hauled the ponderous gold sarcophagus off the sledge and down the wide stone steps into the First Corridor. The priests of Amun followed, Amenemhet, Aanen and Bakt, then Akhenaten and Nefertiti and the rest of the royal family. The nurse Abar handed the young prince Tutankhaten to Iset and waited outside. Scarab, before descending into the tomb, looked up at the night sky and saw from the stars that the steps led due east toward the rising sun. The stairs led into a corridor that sloped steeply downward and Scarab held her brother's hand tightly as she shuffled down the incline. More steps followed then another sloping corridor and more steps into the well chamber. Small and square, the chamber floor receded into black depths. Sturdy wooden beams bridged the gap between the entrance corridor and the next chamber. Scarab crossed the beams quickly, though the wood was obviously strong enough to bear the ponderous weight of the gold sarcophagus that preceded them. The funeral party entered a broad, brightly-lit chamber, the roof of which was supported by two broad rock pillars.

  The body of Amenhotep was removed from the golden sarcophagus and propped up at the far end of the room. The lifeless gold mask of the king stared out at the splendors of his last palace. Queen Tiye, wife of the dead king, knelt before the standing mummy and offered up the ritual lamentations, taking cold gray wood ash from a small jar and strewing them liberally over her hair and face, whitening her brown a
rms. Her keen of grief was the only sound in the tomb.

  Akhenaten stared at the wall paintings, grief and anger battling for possession of his features. "This will be the last burial involving the old gods," he stated flatly, to no-one in particular. "In deference to my father, I allow this to happen, but from here onward only the Aten will be pictured on tomb walls."

  The now empty sarcophagus and the attendant priests made the slow journey deeper into the tomb. Scarab released Smenkhkare's hand and looked around the room, avoiding looking at the dead king and his grieving queen. She was fascinated by the glorious paintings on the walls and ceilings. An image of Amenhotep, leading ranks of priests, led the prayers to the sun, Re-Herakte and Aten, as images of the sun god in his golden boat sailed above them. Stars and images of lesser gods crowded the walls and ceiling. Along one side was a trestle table covered with fine linen and bearing dishes laden with the funerary feast. Pictures of everyday life formed a backdrop to the feast: bread-making, brewing of beer, the feeding and slaughtering of animals and hunting scenes where wild fowl, desert gazelles and lions fell beneath the bow in the king's hand. Toward the back of the room, near the doorway to the next room, stood the great Ka statue, a full-sized likeness of Nebmaetre Amenhotep, stern-faced and regal, the double crowns of Kemet, Deshret the Red and Hedjet the White on its head. In its outstretched hands the Ka statue held the symbols of kingship, Heka the Crook and Nekheka the Flail. Scarab jumped when she first saw the staring eyes of the Ka statue and, wide-eyed, crept closer to her brother Smenkhkare again and slipped a hand into his.

  At the end of the chamber, niches were oriented crossways, being the 'Sanctuaries in which the Neteru of the East and West repose'. They held figures representing the inner life spirits and the walls were covered in texts from the Book of the Dead, serving to guide the deceased through the intricacies of the afterlife. It was also the point through which the Ka would come back to the tomb to eat and drink, and to return to the spirit world afterward.