by Overton, Max
Tiye was buried with her husband Amenhotep in his golden tomb. Despite the presence of guards at the entrance to the holy burial valley, thieves had broken into the tomb and stolen many items, though thankfully had not penetrated as far as the sarcophagus. The queen was laid to rest in an anteroom and the entrances filled and sealed once more.
Even before he buried his grandmother, Smenkhkare acted more like a king than a young prince, taking charge of the city and setting up procedures to deal with the plague now making itself felt near the docks. Using the old Amun Legion, now called the Waset Legion, he isolated the waterfront, preventing anyone from entering or leaving. Corpses were packed in natron in the warehouses on the docks and sulphur was burned. Smenkhkare had heard that sulphur fumes cleansed the air and he was prepared to try anything to help his people. The fumes smelt terrible and sent people coughing and choking and large numbers of rats succumbed.
Whether the isolation or the sulphur worked, or whether the disease just naturally disappeared, within three months of the 'Aten Gleams' docking in Waset, plague had gone from the city. The population spontaneously celebrated, cheering the young Smenkhkare whenever he showed himself.
It was at about this time that his great-uncle Aanen came to see him. The priests of Amun, of whom Aanen was Second Prophet, had long been in hiding. The god himself was outlawed and, under orders from Akhenaten, even the name of the god had been chiseled from many monuments and inscriptions. His priests, while technically under sentence of death if they set foot in Waset, had not been pursued too diligently by the army or the Medjay. Too many citizens were secret worshippers of the old gods, Amun especially, whose city this was. So the priests remained, calmly moving about the city, and the authorities quietly looked the other way. Until the plague faded from Kemet and Aanen arrived one morning at the palace requesting an interview with prince Smenkhkare.
Smenkhkare received the priest in his private chambers, not wanting to make the visit an official one. He was learning that a lot of the skill of ruling a city involved knowing when to be circumspect. There were many spies of Akhenaten, dedicated followers of Aten, even in the palace, and Smenkhkare had no desire to stir up enmity by openly supporting Amun. By receiving Aanen in his private chambers, he could pass off the visit as an informal one by a relative, his great-uncle. A servant showed Aanen into Smenkhkare's private reception room.
"Uncle, it is good to see you. You are well?" Smenkhkare noted the plain robe and the unkempt wig, effectively disguising the man. Unless you knew him you would never guess he was a priest of Amun.
Aanen had thought long and hard about this meeting, consulting with the other Prophets of Amun. Smenkhkare, as brother to Akhenaten, was an as yet unrecognized heir to the throne given the Heretic only spawned daughters. Surely that lack of sons was a judgment of the gods? On the other hand, there was no predicting the actions of the present king; perhaps he would decide on somebody else to succeed him. Ay was a possibility. The man was certainly thirsty for power and was already Grand Tjaty of the Two Lands now that Ramose was dead.
Not the least of Aanen's problems this fine morning was how to address Smenkhkare and whether or not to bow to him. Strictly, as Smenkhkare held no official position in Waset, Aanen outranked him and should not address him in any way beyond calling him by name or as 'nephew'. On the other hand, the young prince could be the answer to their ongoing problems and should be handled with courtesy and honour. At the last minute, Aanen decided on the latter.
"Prince Smenkhkare, you do me much honour." Aanen bowed deeply, even extending his hands at knee level as one would to a superior.
Smenkhkare flushed and stepped forward to raise his uncle to his feet. He dismissed the servant and led the old man to a chair near the window. "Uncle, there is no need for that. You are Second prophet of Amun and a family member besides."
Aanen smiled to himself at the prince's words. "Then let us talk as family members."
"Excellent. You will have some wine? I have a fine jar of Syrian vintage here." Smenkhkare poured two cups and passed one across to Aanen. "What shall we drink to?"
"To Ma'at? Our dear Kemet could use some stability and order."
Smenkhkare nodded and drank, then looked carefully at the old priest. "Do you talk of Ma'at, meaning the goddess; or of Ma'at, meaning order?"
"They cannot be distinguished."
"Then such words should be used with caution, uncle. You know as well as I that the palace and city are full of spies."
Aanen grinned. "Who better than I to know of caution?"
"Yet caution is not something the priests of Amun practice. I hear many things that happen in the city."
"Yes, I was forgetting how well you know the city and the mood of the people, Smenkhkare. So you must know that the people have accepted the king's god in name only."
Smenkhkare raised an eyebrow and sipped from his cup. "The temples of Aten are well attended."
"Of course. They act the part for the Heretic, yet if he died tomorrow, the Aten temples would be deserted the day after."
"Now that is dangerous talk," Smenkhkare said in a flat voice. "I would remind you that Akhenaten is the rightful king and my brother. As a loyal subject--and as brother, I give him my full support."
"I know. I did not mean it as it sounded. But the plague has swept through Kemet leaving thousands dead, including three daughters of the king. Our lives are in the hands of the gods and who knows what tomorrow will bring."
Smenkhkare got up and walked past his uncle to the window where he looked down on the garden where he had first met his sister Beketaten years before. "Yes, who knows what tomorrow will bring," he murmured. He watched a pair of swallows swooping and flitting above the ornamental pond, catching insects. Somewhere among the eaves of the palace would be their mud nest, probably with chicks inside. The prince sighed, thinking of more carefree days. Once, he would have gone looking for the nest, just to see the parents feeding their young.
"Why did you come here, Aanen?"
"To see my young nephew, of course. Why else would I come?"
"You have never come to see me...Uncle. I have had visits from your brother Ay and your sister, my grandmother; but never you. Why is that?"
Aanen put down his empty cup and looked at Smenkhkare's back. The young man half leaned out the window, apparently looking at something below him. "The duties of a Prophet of Amun are onerous ..."
"No more than those of a queen or a Tjaty. Why have you never been to see me--yet now you decide to. What has changed?"
Aanen controlled his breathing and fought his desire to get up and pace, not wanting to show his anxiety. "Kemet has changed."
Smenkhkare waited but his uncle said nothing more. After a while he said, "Go on."
"You are correct when you say we have never been close. To me, you have always just been another one of my sister's children and not even an important one. The prince Tuthmosis was the heir, then later the younger Amenhotep. Why should a baby begotten by the king on his daughter occupy my mind?"
Smenkhkare turned from the window and leaned back against the edge. He folded his arms across his broad hairless chest. "Family feeling?" he hazarded with a faint smile.
"Then came Akhenaten," Aanen said, ignoring the prince's comment. "Yet still while the old king lived, Kemet remained much as it was. There have always been favorite gods and the story of their rises and falls in popularity could occupy us for hours. There was no reason to suppose the Aten would be any different except for the king changing his name."
"And by doing so, signifying he no longer held Amun in high regard."
"Just so. This Per-Aa , this Great House is a House of Amun. Its destiny is tied to the god yet how can it survive if the god is passed over? We have seen the Heretic try to destroy the gods, even attempting to chisel out Amun's name. The Aten will not protect Kemet, he shines on all lands equally. Only Amun can truly protect us."
Smenkhkare walked to the table and poured himself
another cup of wine. He held the flask out questioningly to Aanen and when the old man nodded, crossed over and filled his cup too. Putting the flask down, he sipped, appreciating the full body of the wine. "So why do you come to me?"
"Who else is there to go to? The Heretic has no sons, nor any to succeed him. You are his brother, and you have proven yourself worthy of being king. What is more important, you are untainted by the heresy of Aten."
"What of your brother, Ay? Or of my brother, Tutankhaten?"
"Ay is ambitious and hungry for power. I am sure he would like to become king but he is also a realist. He is a commoner, without any royal connections."
"Commoners have become king before."
"Not often, and only in times of great turmoil. And never while a royal male exists."
"Are you saying Ay would seek to remove me?"
Aanen shook his head. "Not even Ay would do that. He knows that the best he can hope for is to control a king. He achieves a lot with the Heretic; he would hope to do the same with his successor."
"Me."
"Or your brother Tutankhaten, though his name speaks against him."
"Names have been changed before, also by a brother."
"That is true, but he is still a child and unproven. You have shown yourself a friend of Amun."
"And you would seek to make me king in place of my brother Akhenaten?" Smenkhkare threw his cup to the floor, the wine splashing Aanen's robes. The young man glared at the priest, his colour rising. "What would you have me do, priest? Plunge in the sword myself? Or do you favor poison?" He whirled and strode to the doorway, yelling for the palace guards. "This is rank treason, Aanen, and I cannot, will not, ignore it. Guards!"
Aanen got up so quickly he knocked the chair to the floor with a clatter. "No, no, you misunderstand me, Smenkhkare. We do not want you to replace the king, just dilute his influence."
Behind him, Smenkhkare could hear the guard running up the corridor towards the royal apartments. He looked at his uncle through slitted eyes, still angry but in control again. "What do you mean?"
"The removal of the king by assassination would throw the country into chaos and hand our beloved Two Lands to the Hittite. Nobody wants that." Aanen started to talk faster as the shouts of the guards drew nearer. "We had in mind a co-regency, the Her...Akhenaten and you. Within months."
"Why would the king agree to that?" He held up a hand as the first guard charged up, his sword drawn. "Wait. Stand fast." Smenkhkare walked forward a few paces and lowered his voice so only Aanen could hear his words. "Why would he do that?"
"He wouldn't, of his own initiative, but he could be persuaded. Akhenaten is blind to the chaos he causes but even he can at last see there are troubles. Ay can convince him to make you co-regent and put you in charge of Waset."
"Would I want that?"
"Think of it, Smenkhkare. Akhenaten refuses to venture outside of his city, preferring to while away his days with pleasure and his god. You, on the other hand know the common man and recognize the need he has for the old gods. You would be king to the rest of Kemet. Bring back the old worship, slowly of course, but stabilise Kemet, increase funding to the army, and counteract the blindness of the king. You would not be acting against your brother but rather, saving him, allowing him to follow his god unhindered while the rest of Kemet gets back to normal." Aanen's eyes flicked to the doorway and the soldiers blocking it with drawn swords.
"Why would Ay do that? What does he gain?"
"He thinks he gains influence over a young and untried prince." Aanen ventured a slight smile. "You and I know different. Under your leadership Kemet can become strong again. The gods will renew their blessings and everyone will achieve peace and prosperity--not just a few Atenist sycophants and nobles, but even the peasants and laborers."
Smenkhkare stared at Aanen for several minutes before walking past him to the window, once more staring down into the garden. His fingers drummed on the balustrade. He turned, nodding. "I will think on this. Where can I contact you?"
Aanen felt his knees weaken with relief. "At the temple of Amun, in the caretaker's cottage. He will know where to find me."
"Guards," Smenkhkare said, forcing a smile to his lips. "My uncle wishes to leave the palace. Please escort him to the palace gates safely." He bowed slightly to Aanen and watched as the old man left, guards hemming him close as he left.
At the palace gates, Aanen gathered his plain robe about him and hurried off toward the city, not even glancing toward the open gates of the defaced Amun temple. He penetrated deep into the city, nobody paying him any attention, until he came to an inn close to the Street of Whores. Inside, he looked around the small dimly-lit room with its bevy of drinkers and dice-players, spotting the man he sought in a corner; his back turned, hunched over a pot of beer. He walked over.
"Mahuhy."
The young entrepreneur looked up in surprise, then a calculating look came over him. "Aanen." He nodded, smiling. "A beer?"
"No thank you. He is here?"
"Nearby. Are you sure you will not have a pot? It really is rather good."
"No. Take me to him."
Mahuhy shrugged and drained his own pot before leading the way out into the bright sunshine. "This way." He led the older man around the corner into the Street of Whores.
"He is down here?"
"Why not? Who would look for a high priest in a whorehouse? Then again, maybe they would." Mahuhy laughed at his joke, and then again at Aanen's expression.
They entered the whorehouse through a side door, Mahuhy nodding pleasantly at the old woman in the entrance before leading him up long flights of stairs to an upper floor. Around them could be heard the sounds of women engaged in the pursuits of their profession. He stopped and indicated a rough and splintered door. "In there." Turning, the young man sauntered away, his fingers jingling a few pieces of copper in his purse.
Aanen pushed through the door and saw a man in a plain robe and a wig sitting on the low bed flicking at something on the lumpy straw-filled mattress. He closed the door and bowed low. "Hem-Netjer, may Amun shower you with blessings."
"You took your time," Amenemhet growled. He sniffed. "Is that wine I smell on you? He received you then?"
"He did, though he played down the family connection."
"What did he say? Will he do it?"
"He is thinking on it, but I believe he will."
Amenemhet slapped at his leg and picked something off the mattress, squeezing it between the nails of his forefinger and thumb. Aanen heard a tiny crunching sound and blood squirted. "Cursed bedbugs." The High Priest looked up impatiently. "When will you know?"
Aanen shook his head. "A day, maybe two. I do not think an ambitious young man will delay long. From his look he will do it."
"Then I will send a messenger to Ay. The sooner we get this under way, the better for all of us."
"You think having Smenkhkare as co-regent will really help the return of Amun and the temples?"
"We discussed this, Aanen. If it does not, then we will seek another solution. There is always another prince, one who may be more amenable to our suggestions."
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Chapter Twenty-Five
Life in Akhet-Aten gradually returned to normal when the plague left. Many of the rock tombs to north and south in the surrounding cliffs found occupancy earlier than intended but for the poor, only shallow graves in the desert sands gave their relatives any semblance of hope that their loved ones might enjoy the pleasures of the afterlife. Life went on. Widows and widowers found new partners, children found themselves with different parents or with grandparents suddenly gone, yet food had still to be found, clothing supplied and debts paid, pleasures eked out of meager incomes. After a few months, the people of Akhet-Aten realized that they still lived in the best place in Kemet, near their king, and if he could go on, so could they.
Akhenaten had suffered his first setback in his privileged life. The last
thirteen years had been nothing but a time of joy for him. Although set about by the cares and worries of managing an empire, he had managed to leave most of that to a succession of other people; his father first, then Tiye, his mother. After her, Ay and his council had taken the troubles of the land upon themselves, leaving him free to worship his god, seek beauty and enjoy the delicious body of his lovely young wife and the wonderful daughters they had produced.
His three young darling daughters; Meketaten, Neferneferouaten-tasherit and little Setepenra lay in the city's House of the Dead for the required seventy days, then had been laid to rest in their tiny rock tombs. Meketaten had her own as she had lived long enough for construction of the rock chambers to be almost complete. The two younger girls shared the tomb prepared for their older sister Meryetaten. The funerals were perfunctory, not because of any lack of love or desire to deny the deceased everything they would need for their journey through death's dark doors; but solely because the complex and mysterious rites pertaining to the old gods were absent. Aten was the only god painted on the walls, prayers to Aten were the only ones written on scraps of papyrus hidden among the folds of the mummy cloths, and hymns to Aten were the only sounds heard in the tombs.
Queen Nefertiti withdrew, with her three surviving daughters, after the funerals and kept to herself, shunning the public life and her strange husband. Akhenaten also withdrew, mostly into silence. He spent long hours alone in the wasteland close to the valley of the royal tombs, talking to his god. Striving to understand how the Aten could deal such a dreadful blow to his only son, the king stared into the bright sky, squinting into the glare, endeavoring to see the face of the Aten. He would stumble back to the palace, his head pounding with pain and brightly coloured images of the Aten dancing in front of him. Cold compresses eased the pain, along with an anointing with oil in which the skull of a catfish had been fried. His eyes were soothed with brain of tortoise mixed in honey, the sticky mess being applied externally.
One afternoon, as the king lay groaning with pain in his darkened bedchamber, attended by Shepseskare the physician, Grand Tjaty Ay came to see him.
