by Marié Heese
THE TWENTY-FIFTH SCROLL
The reign of Hatshepsut year 21:
The second month of Akhet day 20
Today my steward Amenhotep came to me bearing bad news. He is not given to being emotional, but I could see at once that he was upset. He reported to my office at the palace, as he does regularly – indeed, daily when he is in Thebes. But of late he has been spending all his time at the quarry where work on my giant obelisk has been going on for weeks. His skin was blistered by the sun and his bony frame had lost what little flesh it had carried. A lean and sinewy man, he is as tough as a mooring rope, but he staggered a little when he made obeisance.
“My dear Amenhotep,” I said, “you look ill. Please be seated and I will call for beer. I am sure you are thirsty.”
He shook his head dumbly and shuffled. “Majesty is gracious,” he said, his voice almost a croak. Then he stared at his feet. His toenails were cracked and ingrained with dirt. I could see that he had been working with the team of labourers and stonemasons himself.
“Well, talk to me,” I prompted him. “What have you to report?”
“Majesty …” His voice failed.
“What is it? Has there been an accident?” Sometimes bad accidents occur at the quarries and men are injured. I hoped this was not the case, for I did not want deaths associated with my obelisk.
“No, Majesty.” He cleared his throat. Then he looked me in the eye, and it came out in a rush: “The obelisk has cracked, Majesty. We have had to abandon it.” He clenched his lips, which were trembling.
I saw that he was very much afraid. No doubt he expected some awful punishment to descend upon him. Or perhaps he merely feared my rage. But what does it benefit one to rail at the gods? For certainly, Amenhotep and his workers would have done their utmost to make a success of the task. Their failure must mean that the gods did not favour it. More than that: It must mean that the gods were angry. If that were true, it would be my fault, not his.
“Do you know why?” I asked calmly.
He drew a deep, wavering breath and coughed. “We had already excavated it on three sides,” he told me, clearly much relieved at my response. “It is red granite. It would have been remarkable. We worked extremely hard, Majesty.”
“I can see that you took a hand in it yourself,” I said.
“Yes, Majesty, I did. We had extra hands on the team and we worked also at night by torchlight. All other work was stopped. We tried …” His voice broke and he coughed again. Stone dust, I thought.
“Well, then what happened?”
“The upper end is cracked,” he said sadly. “I believe it was a latent fault in the material. There is nothing to be done. Nothing at all.”
I nodded. A fault in the material. Not human error. Indeed, the gods were angry. But why? Could it be that danger was threatening Egypt and Pharaoh was not responding with sufficient vigour? Was it time to come forth as the destroyer? What was it that the gods desired of me?
“Majesty, I fear it is too late to try again,” said Amenhotep. “Also …” he paused.
“Yes?”
“Also, the flood is not happening. It would be impossible, Majesty, to transport a giant obelisk on the river as low as it is. Even if we could complete one, which we cannot.”
I nodded again. It is true. The water is extremely low. Lower than I have ever seen it in my life at this time of year, and there have been one or two years when the inundation was not entirely satisfactory – once during my late father’s reign and once during my husband’s reign, may they both live. But never was it like this.
“Amenhotep, thank you for coming to tell me of this yourself,” I said. “I am sure that you, all of you, did your best. It seems that the undertaking did not have the favour of the gods. You should go home now. I should think your wife will be glad to have you back. Rest for a day and then turn your attention to the arrangements for the Opet festival.”
“Majesty will still hold it?” He was surprised.
“Oh, yes. It seems to me to be more necessary than ever. We must propitiate the gods.” Never had the Opet festival seemed so important to me.
I have not had a chance to continue my writing for some time. So much has happened. Despite the setback with the obelisk, the arrangements and preparations for the Opet festival went forward, and on the due date all was ready. Normally this is the greatest Theban festival of the year and the people welcome it. They are free to take part, since it is the time of flooding: The harvest is long past and it is not yet time to plough and sow. It is usually boisterous and joyous and there is much feasting and dancing in the streets.
But this year the mood was sombre. The waters remain undeniably low. People are beginning to fear that there will be famine in a few months’ time, and when the festival began they did not feel festive. I had however set my hopes on the Opet festival to turn peoples’ minds to the positive message of rebirth and renewal, and I trusted that the familiar rituals and ceremonies would work their customary magic, restoring the connections of the Pharaoh with the gods and with the people of the Black Land.
The crowd that gathered on the first day to watch the priests enter the temple at Karnak to prepare the God for the procession was smaller than usual and subdued. The bright flags that festooned the route hung slack in the oppressive heat; there was not a breath of wind. Only a few garlands of flowers, already browned and curling from the merciless sun, hung from poles beside the way. I waited outside the entrance for the priests to carry out their prescribed tasks; I had to be there to greet the God and to escort him to the temple at Luxor. Slaves held up parasols over me and over my ladies and others wafted ostrich feather fans, but it was a long, hot wait nonetheless.
Inside, I knew, the priests would be bathing the image of the God and then dressing him in spotless linen robes. He would be adorned with precious jewellery from the temple treasury and placed upon a barque.
They seemed to be taking an age. We were becoming breathless in the heat. At last the priests emerged from the temple bearing the stately barque upon their shoulders, led by the tall figure of Hapuseneb, resplendent in his leopard-skin drape and enormous ceremonial wig. I greeted the God, making a deep obeisance, then turned to escort the barque, walking directly behind it.
Now the images of Mut and Khonsu, Amen’s consort and their son, carried in their own barques, joined the procession. The Opet festival is the honeymoon of Amen and Mut, making possible the conception of their divine son. Nine months later the statue of Mut will be taken to the birthing house to give symbolic birth to Khonsu. I hoped that the renewal of the divine Theban Triad would bring about the inundation.
As we moved into the street, the crowd gave a collective gasp and a cheer went up. I began to feel more confident. On either side walked priests carrying incense and shaking sistrums. Behind us waiting dignitaries fell into step, followed by chantresses, musicians on trumpets and drums, acrobats, dancers and a motley group of commoners. The entire procession would make the journey to the temple at Luxor on foot. The road was lined with peddlers hawking their wares and kiosks selling items for offerings.
The musicians stepped up the tempo of the march they were playing and women clicking menat took up the rhythm. Bystanders began to clap and sing. This was better, I thought. I could smell freshly baked bread and saw people eating.
“Hola!” shouted a brawny farmer. “May we ask the God some questions?”
“You may ask,” a priest told him, “and perhaps the God will answer. But only yes or no.”
“Will my wife bear me a son?” asked the farmer. The barque hesitated for a moment, then dipped forwards, signifying yes. The man beamed and his mates clapped him on the back.
A thin, anxious-looking woman ran up. “Will my child get well?” she called. The barque did not move beyond continuing on its way. “Please!” she shouted as it went past. “Will my child get better? He is so ill!” The barque hovered, then retreated, signifying no. She burst out in desperate wai
ls. My heart went out to her.
“Enough now! We must move on,” said the priest. “But some people will be allowed into the temple, where the oracle may be consulted. If you have questions, you should try to get in.”
At length we reached the Opet temple at Luxor. Now the three barques were borne into the dark recesses of the temple. Only the priests and I were allowed to accompany them. In a special shrine there was another image of the God embodied as Amen-Min, who, according to the ancient creation beliefs, inseminates the earth and brings forth fruitful harvests. For me to commune with Amen-Min is a particularly important part of the Opet ceremonies in any year, but most particularly this year when the inundation is in doubt.
I entered the dark shrine with a torch in my hand, dizzy with the heat of the day and the clouds of incense that swirled around me. I placed the torch in its socket and abased myself before the God. First I needed to grow calm so that I could concentrate. I breathed deeply, smelling beneath the incense the dank, mouldy smell of the rocky floor. The perspiration cooled upon my skin. In the silence I could hear only my own uneven breathing, with the faint rattle of sistrums and sweet, high notes of the chantresses in the background.
Softly I began the ritual incantations:
“O my Father, my Lord!
All people sing thy blessings and praise thy name.
O hear our pleas!
The earth awaits thy precious seed!
Come thou and inseminate it!
Be thou generous, be thou merciful!
Praise thy glorious name!”
These words I repeated three times, breathing deeply and rhythmically all the while. Now I was calm. It seemed to me that the God spoke directly to my heart. This what he said:
“Greetings to thee, Son of Horus, King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Lord of the Two Lands. I have placed thee upon the throne to rule over Egypt. Thou shalt overcome the rebellious; thou shalt maintain the peace; thou shalt reject evil.”
“Yes, Lord,” I whispered.
“Thou shalt honour my name through the excellent deeds of thy Ka.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Thou shalt maintain Ma’at.”
“I hear thee, O my Father, my Lord.”
I waited, but the God spoke no more. Somewhat stiffly I rose to my feet, took up the torch and left the shrine, moving backwards and sweeping away my footprints in the dust with the palm fronds the priests had provided for that purpose.
Now I entered the chapel where the coronation rites and ritual robing took place. As at my first coronation, and again at my Sed festival and annually at Opet, I was cleansed and anointed, dressed in the appropriate regalia, and at last invested with the crowns of Upper and Lower Egypt, the flail and sceptre placed in my hands. I wore the false Pharaonic beard tied on with loops around my ears. Hapuseneb, who officiated, spoke these words:
“Nothing is lost to thee, nothing has ended for thee. Behold, thou art renewed and powerful.”
Renewed and powerful. Oh, yes, that was indeed how I felt. Now I would be escorted to an audience chamber where a privileged crowd would be present to be the first to welcome me. It was customary for the people to greet me with jubilation, to praise my accomplishments and forgive any wrongs I might have done. Once again I embodied divine power and generosity; once again I was the source of bounty and well-being for the Black Land. Surely now, I thought, the gods would once again be pleased with me.
As I entered the audience chamber, a cheer went up, but it seemed to me to be more muted than it used to be in previous years. The one who spoke on behalf of the people praised me as the custom was. Yet I thought that he too sounded less filled with enthusiasm than before. Or perhaps, I assured myself, I was imagining this. I took my place upon the throne at the far end of the room.
Some questions to the oracle would now be allowed. In a niche high up against the wall to my right there was a statue of the God. I knew that it was a hollow statue with an opening in its back into which a priest could speak, while standing in a passage behind the wall. The body of the statue magnified and distorted his voice so that it did not sound human at all, but resonated and echoed all around the room. The statue, which was covered in gold and had jewels for eyes, was softly lit, and when the voice boomed out it truly seemed to come magically alive. Unlike the barque oracle that accepted only questions that could be answered yes or no, this oracle gave longer answers. The right to ask questions of it was greatly desired by the Egyptian people.
An expectant murmur ran around the room as the Chief Prophet of Amen, Hapuseneb, took up a position near the statue. “Are there questions to put to the God?” he asked.
At once a man near the front stepped forwards. He had the burly build and large hands of a farmer. “I have a question,” he said.
“You may speak.”
“I want to know,” he said, staring at the glowing statue, “why the inundation does not come.”
Several voices agreed. It was a deep concern for all present, of course; only to be expected that it would be asked.
“The tears of Isis do not swell the river,” the statue intoned in its booming voice. Despite myself, I found that my arms had broken out in goose bumps. It was a very convincing presentation, one had to hand that to the priests.
“We know that,” the man persisted. “But why not? Where lies the blame?”
“Isis has turned her back on Khemet,” proclaimed the God.
There were exclamations of horror. This was dreadful.
“The mother and protector of us all withdraws from us,” said the strangely inhuman voice, echoing from the walls. “She no longer broods over us with her enchanted wings.”
A woman shouted: “But why? What have we done?”
At first it seemed that the oracle would not answer. Then the voice came again: “Isis wanders in the world. She is desolate. She seeks her son. She cries out in the wilderness: Where is Horus? He must sit upon the throne of Osiris. It is his rightful place.”
I stiffened upon the throne. Fury threatened to overcome me. I almost rose and shouted at the God: “You lie!” But of course that was impossible. Consternation had broken out among those present. What did the God’s pronouncement mean? I rose to my feet and raised my hand. The people grew quieter.
“We are all familiar with this tale,” I said. “The oracle tells us that these events are once more being played out in the supernatural world,” I went on, improvising as I went. “Isis is so taken up with the age-old battle between Seth and Horus that she cannot pay attention to Khemet. She cannot weep for Osiris. She must first intercede for her beloved son.”
This seemed to be going down fairly well, although some still looked doubtful.
“It must all be played out again,” I said. “Then, when Isis has vanquished Seth with the support of Osiris, all will again be well. Our mother and protector will remember us and she will grant us her tears in memory of her lost spouse. We must only be patient.”
Even the first questioner now appeared to be satisfied. Before Hapuseneb could allow more questions, I announced: “The oracle will speak no more. The gods are weary and they desire to commence the journey to their homes.”
Nobody dared to contradict me and the ceremony came to an end.
I was shaking with suppressed rage. Who had dared to speak such treason? For treason it was. If interpreted as a comment upon the current situation in Egypt, it was easy to conclude that Isis was displeased because the person on the throne was not the Living Horus, and that the mother god wanted another, a true Horus, on the throne – Thutmose. The people were not stupid. I might have confused the issue to some extent with my interpretation, but there would be enough people who would read the obvious explanation into the God’s words.
I will demand the head of the priest who had supplied the voice, I thought. He will be fed to the crocodiles. How had he dared! It was insupportable. Yet Hapuseneb himself must have known this was going to happen – if indeed he had not instigated it. He
did not look surprised. Well, I cannot not punish the Chief Prophet of Amen, I thought. But I can punish a simple priest. I will have him found. And he will pay.
Here endeth the twenty-fifth scroll.
Her Majesty has tried hard to undo the damage done by the oracle, but I fear that her attempts have not been effective. The second and third days of the Opet festival were poorly attended, and all in all it was a dismal affair. The common people are convinced that Isis has turned her back on Khemet, for it is already obvious that the inundation will come late, if at all, and this is frightening. They are blaming this on the Pharaoh. Clearly something radical is wrong; so fearful a catastrophe could not happen if Pharaoh’s magic was as potent as it ought to be.
So the criticism one hears in the taverns is growing ever more vociferous. Only yesterday Ahmose and I were drinking in the Wishing Well, and we heard some farmers talking morosely at a table near to ours. I watched in admiration as Saria, the Syrian slave girl of the ample charms, brought a large order of beer without spilling a drop, even while evading the beefy hands that were reaching out to squeeze her delectably round behind.
“Just as stingy as Hapi, this girl,” complained one wall-eyed fellow, taking a huge gulp of beer and letting out a belch.
“Aye,” grumbled his burly companion. “There’s to be no flood this year, that’s plain for all to see. No flood, no rich black earth, no seeding, and no harvest when the time comes. No food on the table soon. Nor beer.”
“It’s the fault of the Pharaoh, is what I say,” the wall-eyed one whispered hoarsely. He knew he spoke sedition, but he was already fairly drunk and grown careless. “The Pharaoh must hold Khemet safe, and what I say is, no woman has the strength. Not over time. Not when the going gets rough.” He drank some more.
“’Tis unnatural, a female Pharaoh is,” opined the burly one. “We need a man on the Double Throne, and double quick too.”
“A stronger hand, a stronger hand,” agreed a small fellow with a bulbous nose.
