The Amarnan Kings, Book 1: Scarab - Akhenaten

by Overton, Max

  Akhenaten nodded, trying unsuccessfully to look interested. "Yes, I am plagued with letters about the situation. I have already given orders that the problem be dealt with."

  "How?" Maltiri shot to his feet and stared at the king, the colour rising to his face. "My master Abimilki has written to you many times asking that you send troops, or if you will not do that, to send gold that he might raise his own troops."

  "Surely we can settle this matter amicably?" Akhenaten grumbled. "Maybe you just need to build more temples to the Aten in your territories. When people see the benefits ..."

  "What dung-eating benefits?" Maltiri screamed, his face turning red, flecks of spittle flying from his lips. "We had a temple in mainland Tyre and that fornicating son of a whore Zimrida burned it to the ground." Zimrida smiled and Maltiri's face reddened. "There is your problem," he pointed a shaking finger at his enemy. "Kill him and my city is safe."

  "I would remind you of whom you address, Maltiri. Let us observe the proprieties and keep our arguments civil." Maya the chancellor spoke softly but with an edge of steel in his voice.

  Maltiri fought for control, taking a deep breath. "My apologies, great king. The magnitude of the problem overwhelms me, particularly when the solution is so simple. Troops, gold or just remove Zimrida of Sidon from the equation."

  Akhenaten smiled. "I do not take offence at hasty words, Maltiri. The peace of the Aten calms me and enables me to see the inner good that lies in all men. I cannot send troops, as I have said before. My aim is peace, not war. Surely that is desired by all men. As for gold, well, you shall have some. I have a beautiful statue of my great father Nebmaetre you may take back to Tyre. It is similar to the last one I sent."

  "My lord, that was but beaten gold over carved wood. My master needs much more gold if he is to defend his city."

  "And lastly," Akhenaten raised his voice, overriding Maltiri's objection. "Whatever dispute you have with Zimrida of Sidon, I suggest you end it soon. Zimrida," the king inclined his head graciously toward the Sidonian leader, "Has assured me many times by letter that he has no designs on Tyre but merely seeks to quell the trouble in the countryside."

  "And you believe him? My lord Akhenaten, he is the cause of the trouble. He and his master Aziru, son of Abdiashirta."

  "No man is my master," Zimrida rumbled. "Though I am ever mindful of your masterful policies." He smiled warmly at Akhenaten.

  "Well, we can solve this once and for all," Akhenaten said. "My lord Zimrida, will you take an oath on the Aten who sees all; that you have no designs on Tyre and seek only peace?"

  Zimrida got to his feet and bowed toward the king, then toward the glittering image of the sun disk on the wall behind the throne. "I do so swear, my lord. I desire only peace." He sat down again, smoothing his dark robes, a pleasant smile on his face.

  Akhenaten beamed. "You see, if men are honest and god-fearing, all troubles can be overcome."

  "If you believe that you are an even bigger fool than you look," Maltiri muttered, sitting down again.

  Ay caught the sense of the words and frowned. Secretly, he agreed with the Tyrian ambassador, but nothing was going to convince his king. He, and others in the council, had tried to open Akhenaten's eyes to the political situation but he refused to see.

  Tutu, the minister of foreign affairs, arose and addressed the king and the gathered envoys. "Great king, and nobles, I must at this time, protest the words of Maltiri of Tyre. No doubt he spoke without due consideration when he slandered the name of Aziru, son of Abdiashirta. I have in my possession many letters from the Amorite king protesting his love for Kemet and his innocence of all charges made by self-seeking men. He has not asked for gold like so many others represented here," he said, looked pointedly at Maltiri. "But he has actually sent gifts of copper and many fine horses to his brother Akhenaten. Is this not so, Sutau?"

  The overseer of the treasury nodded. "That is so."

  "He has no copper mines in his territories," growled Wahankh of Gezer. "Did he rob the mines of Sin to get it? I remind the king that he owns the copper mines of the land of Sin."

  "Aziru is a loyal ally of Kemet," Tutu said firmly. "As is his father.'

  "Why is it then that my patrols find evidence of Amorite incursions, right down to attacking the trading caravans a day's ride north of Gezer? That is not the act of an ally."

  "You have proof these are Amorites?"

  "There are sometimes survivors. They identify their assailants as Amorites." Wahankh grimaced and cracked his knuckles. "I suppose you have an answer for this too?"

  Tutu nodded sagely. "Bandits. Maybe even deserters from the Amorite army."

  "Why do you defend him, Tutu?" Maya asked. "Surely Aziru has shown his colours already by not coming to the aid of Gezer, Megiddo and Hazor?"

  "I have been in constant communication with him on this matter. He is very concerned with the bandit problem. Aziru lacks gold. Without it he cannot pay his troops. If he cannot pay his troops, they will desert. If he has gold he can then act as he greatly desires to act--protecting Kemet's northern borders."

  "Very well." Akhenaten nodded his head as he made his decision. "I shall send gold to Aziru so that he may guard the north. Many deben of fine gold."

  Wahankh snorted. "Send many deben of fine gold to me also then, Waenre. Also to Yabatiri of Akko, Iduma of Hazor, and all your other loyal vassals that we too might defend Kemet against her enemies."

  "My lord king," Sutau interposed. "The treasury is not bottomless. Unless we cut back on the building program here in Akhet-Aten, there will be no gold to send north."

  "Good," Ay muttered. "Then maybe we can forget this nonsense."

  Akhenaten frowned. "You have something to say, Divine Father?"

  "We should talk about this in private."

  "I disagree. If I put this off you will try and talk me out of it," he went on. "I will not curtail the building program. The glory of the Aten is reflected in the magnificence of his city. I can think of no more vital work than the glorification of god."

  "But the gold must come from somewhere," Sutau protested.

  "Then it shall come from the army. Why should we pay troops to sit idle when the gold can more profitably be spent on Aziru's army. He will defend Kemet so our army becomes superfluous." He turned to the scribes sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the throne. One of them, a mere lad, was scribbling furiously, his goose-feather quill scratching across a roll of papyrus as he endeavored to keep up with the argument. The older scribe sat still and attentive, his blank papyrus open on his lap.

  "Apy," the king said. "Take down my decree." He waited until the royal scribe had completed the obligatory honourifics that must precede any formal pronouncement. "The army budget is henceforth cut by one part in ten and a sum of gold of five hundred deben in weight shall be sent north to King Aziru the Amorite with a letter of friendship. You know the phrases, Apy. Prepare it and have it ready for me to see by dawn tomorrow." He turned back to the waiting ambassadors. "Do not think that I am ignoring your pleas, noble lords, but as you have seen, the wealth of Kemet is limited. We must spend our gold first where it will do the most good. We have had a bad harvest this year ..."

  Ay quickly rose to his feet. "My lord king, you should ..."

  "Where I come from that is a sign of the gods' displeasure," Mutaril the Hittite commented.

  "That of course could not be the case here," Akhenaten said firmly. "Aten is our only god and he is not displeased."

  Ay subsided again, sitting down heavily on his chair.

  "Of course, lord king." Mutaril inclined his head in agreement and sat back, smiling.

  "As I was saying, noble lords, Kemet has had a bad harvest but as soon as the taxes come in we shall have plenty of gold for all who wish Kemet well."

  Chancellor Maya curled his lips in a sour expression. "There will not be many taxes this year. If the harvest is bad, the people have nothing extra to give. They must eat, and find seed for next sea
son."

  "I have confidence my tax inspectors will find what is needed. Everyone must realize that Aten comes first."

  "They already give half in taxes," Sutau said. "One quarter of their production to the treasury and one quarter to the temple. Back before the reformation they only gave one part in ten to Amun."

  "Are you saying you would rather be giving to false Amun?"

  "No, my lord king. I can see the truth of Aten. What I am saying is that if you tax the people too hard, there will be trouble. Already some resent Aten and long for the worship of the old gods."

  "I will not listen to this heresy, Sutau. You will keep silent and do your duty. Find the gold I need to send to Aziru. More if you can so I can complete the city."

  "My lord." Ay stood and confronted Akhenaten. "These are matters of internal policy. It would be best to conduct such conversations in private. I am sure my lords Mutaril, Zimrida and Itakama would rather not listen to such mundane details as the harvest and taxation."

  "We are among friends, Divine Father. Do you imagine our friends would use this information in an improper way? Well, do you? Maya, Sutau? What about you, Tutu?"

  The chancellor and treasury overseer said nothing but Maya refused to look at either Ay or the king and Sutau bit his lip in vexation as he realized he had been talking candidly in front of the Hittite minister.

  Tutu shrugged. "They are not our enemies and why should we hide things from our friends?"

  "Then I think perhaps we owe these nobles an apology."

  A low cough from the doorway to the throne room turned heads in the silence that followed the king's remark. A servant stood just inside the room, his eyes wide in his pale face. "My...my lord Akhenaten," he quavered. "I br...bring a message from the queen."

  "Not now," Akhenaten snapped. "I am busy, come back later."

  The servant half turned to go before swinging back to face the king again. "I must tell you, my lord."

  "Oh, very well then. What is it? Hurry up, I am busy."

  "My...my lord...I ..." The servant looked anxiously around the room at the now-attentive ambassadors and ministers of the king's council. "I must tell you alone."

  Akhenaten sighed. "Find out what he wants, Divine Father. The fool will carry on like this all day unless you do." As Ay crossed the chamber, the king turned back to the ambassadors and his ministers. "As I was saying, I think there are apologies due and ..." His voice tailed off as the realisation hit him that Ay was one of the ones he thought needed to apologize. He glanced toward the doorway.

  Ay bent over the servant, encouraging him to tell him the message from the queen. The servant hesitated and Ay pointed out testily that he was not only the king's Tjaty but also the queen's father and that if anyone was worthy to hear the message, he was. The servant nodded and whispered quickly, flinching back as if expecting a blow.

  Akhenaten saw his Tjaty stagger and clutch the servant for support before turning and staring back at him. In seconds, the sprightly old man had aged and his eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  "Divine Father," The king half rose from his throne. "What is the matter?"

  A sob ripped from the old man's chest. "Meketaten. Oh, my lovely girl ..." Ay stumbled across to the king and unmindful of protocol, threw himself into his arms, gripping Akhenaten tightly. "Meketaten has died," he howled.

  The king stood holding Ay for long seconds before his face quivered and collapsed into tears, the two men gripping one another as grief shook their frames.

  Mutaril at once stood and bowed toward the king. "With your permission, king Waenre Akhenaten, I and my colleagues will withdraw. It is not seemly that we should intrude on your grief."

  The other ambassadors and governors scrambled to their feet and on a signal from Chancellor Maya, exited the throne room. Maya looked at the two grieving men for a few moments, then approached them softly, laying his hands on them with compassion.

  "Go to the queen. She will have need of you."

  "Yes." Akhenaten pushed Ay back and turned resolutely to the door. His face, streaked with kohl and malachite where his makeup had run, gave him a wild and distraught look. "Yes," he repeated. "The queen will need me." He set off in a shambling run.

  Maya grabbed the Tjaty and pushed him toward the door. "Go with him, Ay. He needs you."

  Ay turned his tear-streaked visage to the chancellor. "She is my grand-daughter too." His voice shook. "Who will comfort me?"

  Maya nodded. "You are right. I will accompany you. But let us hurry."

  The two men set off at a run toward the women's apartments. Already the news had spread through the palaces and they passed servants and officials wearing a variety of expressions from stunned disbelief to calculating, and some very real outpourings of grief for the loss of the young princess. From the queen's palace came the sound of wailing, the screams of horror and desperation making the men's necks prickle with dread.

  The doorway to the princess' suite was blocked by women, keening and tearing at their clothing, scratching faces and arms with sharp nails. Ay pushed through roughly into the first room then past servants into the bedchamber that had been Meketaten's. The bed was rumpled and soiled and the stink of sickness permeated the air. Already flies were gathering, their drone adding to the horror of the scene.

  The body of Meketaten lay on the bed, arms thrown back and head at an angle, her eyes wide and staring. Flecks of blood-stained spittle covered her lips and chin and spotted the bed linen. Akhenaten was on his knees beside the bed, clutching the body of his daughter to him, a formless keening issuing from his lips. The queen sat at the foot of the bed, haggard and aged, her eyes staring sightlessly at the floor. Ay wiped his eyes then crossed to the bed and put his arm around Nefertiti's shoulders.

  "Daughter." He shook Nefertiti gently. "Daughter, it is I, your father. What has happened? I did not think our beloved Meketaten to be so ill. Where are the physicians?"

  Nefertiti looked up at her father. "She was so bright and beautiful," she whispered. "Her name meant 'protected by Aten'--why did he not protect her?"

  Akhenaten's cries increased in volume and he clutched the body of his daughter more tightly. Ay spared him a shuddering glance before turning back to Nefertiti.

  "Why did she die, daughter? What do the physicians say? I thought she only had a bad cough, maybe some light fever. A strong young girl should be able to throw that off easily."

  Nefertiti turned her head away from the bed, refusing to look at either her husband or the body of her daughter. "Look at her, father. It is plague."

  Ay drew back involuntarily. "Plague? It cannot be--can it?" He took a grip on himself and examined the naked body sprawled on the sheets partly under her grieving father. The body was pale and waxy, save around the face which was smeared and streaked with blood. The sheets by the head were stained with blood too, as if blood had been vomited up recently. He nodded reluctantly. "It may be. I have seen plague before. Sometimes there are swellings and dark splotches on the skin, other times blood is thrown out." He looked around the room and at the crowd of servants and women crowding the door of the antechamber, their cries starting to grate on his nerves. "Where are the physicians?"

  Nefertiti looked up again, her face quivering anew. "With Tasherit and Setepenra. They are sick too." She put a hand up to her mouth and coughed; the sound and her words sending a chill through her father.

  Ay squeezed his daughter's shoulder and strode through into the antechamber once more, then turned and walked along to the other girls' bedchambers. He stood in the doorway of one and saw the little princess named for her beautiful mother, Neferneferouaten-tasherit--the little Beauty of the Beauties of Aten--shivering naked on her bed despite the heat of the room. The little girl cried out in pain, coughing and wheezing, fighting for breath so her eyeballs stood out with the effort. Beside her stood an old man in a long white robe, his straggly gray hair falling down around his shoulders. He was hunched over, gabbling some long complicated phrases. On
the other side of the bed, Beketaten and Meryetaten sat, holding the sick girl's hand and stroking her sweating body.

  "You should not be here," Ay snapped. "Meryetaten, Beketaten. Leave now. Go to your own rooms." The princesses got up meekly enough and ran out of the room.

  The old man turned, breaking off his gabbling. "Eh? Who are you? What are you doing here? You interrupt my treatment."

  "I am Tjaty Ay and this girl's grandfather. Who you are might be more to the point."

  The old man drew himself up and stared down his long nose at Ay. "I am Shepseskare, court physician to king Akhenaten."

  Ay nodded. "How is she?"

  "That is with the gods."

  "But she has the plague? How do you treat the plague?"

  "Plague? Why would you say that? Are you a physician? No, she has a fever and a cough. I have no doubt she will respond to my treatment."

  "Her sister has just died of the plague."

  "Yes, yes, I know, but that does not mean to say this girl has the same affliction."

  "Two days ago, princess Meketaten came down with a fever and a cough, today she lies dead in the next room, of plague." Ay pointed a quivering finger behind him. "This little girl was with her, looking after her. Now she also has fever and a cough. Do you mean to tell me you do not see a connection?"

  "Come, come, Tjaty. I do not tell you how to govern Kemet; that is not my area of expertise. Well, medicine is not yours, so do not tell me how to diagnose sickness or cure people. How could there possibly be a connection between them?" He uttered a short laugh. "Or do you think the disease just jumped off one girl and onto the other?" Shepseskare shook his head, his gray locks swinging. "Illness comes from the gods...er, well, in this case I suppose we should say god. Anyway, I have prescribed prayers. If we say them often enough, and correctly, I am confident she will live."