The Blood of Kings

by John Michael Curlovich

  We walked there. The tombs were larger than I’d thought at first. Now and then a bat or two, undisturbed by our first entrance, would suddenly stir and fly off and out. A parade of gods and goddesses processed along the walls. And there were images of the royal family. I looked from Danilo to his likeness in the stone. Allowing for the conventions of their art, the likeness was unmistakable.

  As he said, the separate tombs joined again at the burial chamber, which held two sarcophagi, side by side, so close you couldn’t have gotten a sheet of paper between them. On the wall behind them was carved the great god Set, seated in divine majesty. The two lovers stood before him, holding hands. I took Danilo’s, and for a time we stood there in silence, contemplating love that strong and that ancient.

  I knew that there was also a tomb that had been cut and prepared for Akhenaten himself, and another for Nefertiti. They were never used. The fate of their bodies was quite unknown. But I asked Danilo if we could see them. They would have more images of his family, and I wanted to see them.

  His response surprised me completely. “We are standing in my father’s tomb.” He walked to the wall and traced his mother’s features with a finger. “He wasn’t a fool, despite what the old priests all claimed. And he wasn’t mad. When the end was coming, he arranged with Per-nefer-Set and Set-hotep to be buried here, where the traditionalist priests could not find him.”

  He stepped to the rear wall and uttered a few words in ancient Egyptian—it sounded like a prayer—then pressed hard on the face of Set. The wall opened. Before us was the burial chamber of Akhenaten.

  The sarcophagus was gold. The carvings one the walls were, too, layered in gold leaf. In our torchlight the room seemed to blaze.

  Danilo walked to his father’s coffin and pushed at the lid. Slowly it began to shift. I helped him. It slid aside. There was the mummy of the heretic pharaoh, arms crossed like all the mummies I had ever seen. There was no burial mask, as with his son Tutankhamen. This must have been a hasty burial. But the mummy was wrapped in fine white linen; time had hardly yellowed it. The cloth was layered evenly, almost geometrically.

  Danilo kissed me. “It is time for you to meet him. And to join us.”

  He began to pray. I could hardly follow the words. It was a chant, almost hypnotic. I caught the name of Set, repeated again and again; there was not much else I understood.

  After a few moments my attention drifted to the golden images on the tomb walls. As Danilo chanted his hymn my eyes strayed from Osiris to Isis to Horus to Anubis… Ptah was there, the god of intellect, and Khnum, the potter god who fashioned humankind on his wheel. I saw Bes, the deformed dwarf god who oversaw childbirth, and Sobek the crocodile god. The gods of Egypt marched in procession, making obeisance to the great god at their head. And it was Set, of course, seated in grandeur at the head of all the rest.

  Suddenly Danilo fell silent. I moved to his side. He was gazing at his father’s face. And suddenly the long-dead pharaoh began to move.

  The eyelids opened, revealing empty sockets. Eyeless, the head turned and stared at us. Slowly the arms unfolded. I took Danilo’s hand.

  Akhenaten sat up in his coffin. Slowly, painfully it seemed, he grasped its sides and began to stand.

  Finally I found my voice. “Danilo, what’s happening? This can’t be.”

  “Shh.”

  The mummy stood. Slowly, achingly it stepped down from the sarcophagus and stood before us. Tall and thin, like all his representations. He swayed unsteadily. Danilo bowed; uncertainly, I did the same.

  Danilo stepped close to him. They embraced. They kissed. After three millennia the Kissing Kings were kissing again.

  The mummy spoke. Its voice was no more than a rasp, a grating whisper. Danilo answered. “The only word I understood in what he said was “love.” The mummy looked to me. Not knowing what to do, I bowed again, lower than before.

  When I looked up, Danilo was holding his golden knife. “Jamie, this is a holy place. Do you understand that?”

  I did.

  “And the gift I have given you… you must accept it finally here or not at all.”

  “I thought I had already—”

  “No, it must be sealed in the presence of the god.”

  I touched his face. He stood quite still. I kissed him. There was nothing in the world I could possibly want more than Danilo, my love.

  He took the knife and held it to his throat. And cut.

  Blood flowed. More than I expected, more than I thought possible. I knew what I had to do. I kissed him again and drank. My body was overwhelmed with sexual pleasure, with the surge of life itself. I felt like I might explode.

  When I finished, I looked to Akhenaten. From his throat too, blood was somehow flowing from the dried, withered body, impossibly, fresh blood flowed. I looked to Danilo and he nodded slightly. I went to his father, kissed him and drank. And the wave of pleasure in my flesh surged even more intensely.

  I felt Danilo behind me. We made love, my two fathers and I. Time after time, one flood of sheer divine pleasure after another. Finally, it became too much and I slept, or maybe I passed out, I still don’t know which.

  When I woke the torches were out. There was faint light coming from the entrance. The sarcophagus cover was back in place, the great pharaoh asleep again. Soon it would be dawn.

  * * *

  We reached Luxor in late morning. It had been Thebes in ancient times, the greatest city in the world. Homer called it “Hundred-Gated Thebes.” I saw why at once.

  We sailed past the Temple of Karnak, on the east bank. Danilo pointed out one feature after another, the famous Avenue of Sphinxes, the line of great pylons or gates, the columns erected by this pharaoh or that. The sun of centuries had bleached away the color, but he told me it had all been painted riotously in its day. “This the largest religious complex ever built. Even larger than the Vatican.”

  “Larger than Branson, Missouri?”

  He snorted. “There are a few more spells I should have said over you.”

  Not long after, we came to the town of Luxor itself. Bahr Street stretched along the shore; there was a small museum, quite new, quite lovely in the way of modern Islamic architecture. Then came the Temple of Luxor, much smaller than Karnak but quite perfect in its lines. Just past the temple came a small park and then the famous Winter Palace Hotel. The great and the near-great had stayed there. I recognized it from Death on the Nile. Danilo ignored my film buff’s enthusiasm.

  There was a dock in front of the hotel. Mohammed moored there, helped us get our things into the hotel and said goodbye. In a short time, he had shared so much with us, or rather he had seen us share so much. I wondered if he knew, or guessed, what had happened in the twin tombs at Amarna.

  The desk clerk gave us a suite of rooms on the top floor, overlooking the Nile. From that viewpoint I could see a bit of the West Bank. There were ruined temples, colossal statues or the remains of them. In the far distance I could see the range of low hills where the Valley of the Kings was located.

  We settled in, had some lunch then crossed the river in a ferry. On the west bank Danilo hired a horse and carriage. The driver looked me up and down. “A young American.”

  How on earth could they tell? It was beginning to annoy me. Danilo said it was obvious, to anyone but an American.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Not all of them can tell.”

  “Not all of them have said so. Tourism is an important industry. And they want their baksheesh.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He smiled. “Americans don’t like to realize they’re so obvious.”

  I was annoyed and I let it show.

  “Why Jamie, you can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”

  The driver took us to the Ramesseum, the famous temple where Shelley had written “Ozymandias.” Colossi, or parts of them, still littered the earth. Compulsively, I recited the line: “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”

  There
were other temples to see, and the Colossi of Memnon, gargantuan statues of Amenhotep II. “The northern one used to sing each morning,” Danilo told me, “to greet the sunrise.”

  I had read about it in a few books on archaeology or I’d have thought he was pulling my leg. All the ancient travelers had heard it. One of the Roman emperors, alarmed by the sighing of its song, had the openings in it covered with cement.

  The Valley of the Kings. I had heard about it so many times, not just in movies. It was huge, desolate, and full of tourists. As we pulled up to the entrance the driver pointed to a modern building, a combination tourist center and restaurant. He pointed to a particular group of visitors. “More Americans.”

  He had to be wrong. I wanted him to be wrong. I approached them. They were from New Jersey.

  Avoiding the knots of tourists as much as we could, we saw the tombs, at least the famous ones. Most of the others were closed to visitors, though Danilo said he could take me into them if I really wanted him to. Seti I—or as I thought of him, Cedric Hardwick—Thurmose III, the great warrior-king, Amenhotep III, Danilo’s grandfather. There was no nostalgia. “I never knew him. He died before I was born.”

  There were also a great many empty tombs. Barren stone, unadorned, unused. One was Labeled Tomb No. 55. A sign explained, in Arabic, French and English, that one unidentified body had been found there. Archaeologists believed it to be that of Smenkhare, the son of the heretic pharaoh. It made Danilo fall silent. I wanted to ask him whose body had been in the tomb, but his mood warned me off.

  Finally, we went to the tomb of his brother. It was the smallest one in the Valley, at least of the tombs actually used by kings. And yet it was still magnificent, the colors on the walls still alive and vibrant. In the final chamber lay the king’s sarcophagus, bright blinding gold. His remains were inside, resting where they had been laid three millennia before. The one pharaoh whose mummy was left to repose where it was intended. Danilo spoke not one word.

  When we emerged from the tomb, the sun was beginning to set. He told me he was going to stay the night there. “You go back to the hotel alone. Give the driver ten pounds. He’ll be quite happy.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right here?”

  “The guards will leave me alone.”

  “That’s not what a meant.”

  “I know, Jamie.” He hugged me. “Go ahead. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I lost sight of him quickly as the carriage headed back toward the Nile. I did not know if I wanted to be with him there. I had seen so much already—experienced so much already. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted more.

  Night fell quickly. I had a quiet dinner in the hotel, delicious fish. Then, feeling restless, I went out for a walk. The Luxor Temple was lit brightly by floodlights. I crossed the street into that little park. Paved pathways led among trees and flowering shrubs; the air was quite full of their scent.

  There were other men there. Walking singly or in pairs. It became apparent even to this sheltered boy from Ebensburg that they were cruising one another. Quite furtively, but it was unmistakable. Two of them would meet and then disappear in the shrubbery or simply leave together.

  A young man approached me. My age, maybe younger. He had thick black hair and deep brown skin. He smiled. “You are an American.”

  I was irritated but didn’t let it show. “Yes.”

  “From New York?”

  “No, from Pittsburgh.”

  “Ah, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The Steel City.”

  “You know America.”

  “How can we not? So much depends on it.” He did not make this sound favorable. He looked around. “You must be careful. There are police. Men are arrested here all the time.”

  It did not surprise me.

  Suddenly, the floodlights on the temple went out. Luxor was officially closing down for the night. The park became dark. The young man took my hand. “Can we be friends?”

  I hadn’t expected anything like this. “Uh… I guess so.”

  “Good. Come with me. We will walk.” Leading me by the hand he took me out into Bahr Street. There were antique street lamps made to look Victorian; I wondered if they really were, or of it was for the tourists. He looked at me and smiled an enormous smile. “My name is Mageet.”

  “I’m Jamie. Nice to meet you.”

  “Jamie.” He seemed to like the sound of it.

  There was no moon yet; it would rise late. The Nile was dark; only the lights from the town lit it, flickering on the surface. There were other people out walking, enjoying the warm night. A few of them, the tourists, looked startled at the sight of us hand in hand. Most of the Egyptians paid no notice.

  “My brother is in America. He was arrested.”

  I wasn’t at all sure how to react. “I’m sorry.”

  “We don’t know when we’ll see him again.”

  “Is he—?” I groped for something intelligent to say.

  “A student.”

  We passed the museum. Lovely little building. Mageet asked me if I had been inside. “They have a small but choice collection. Most of the good things were taken by the French and the British. And by your Metropolitan Museum.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  He shrugged. “A hundred years.” Ahead of us loomed the Temple of Karnak where columns towered and obelisks soared into the night sky. “Not so long, really. We will get them back.” He fell silent; we walked that way for a while.

  The temple complex was huge, much larger than it had seemed from the river. It took us several minutes to reach the main entrance. Mageet stopped walking. He looked away from me awkwardly. “Would you like to take me to your hotel room?”

  This I had expected. “No, I’m afraid not. I’m with someone.”

  “The older gentleman.”

  “You’ve been watching us.”

  “You are beautiful. You have the body of a swimmer. Like Antinous.” He hesitated. “How could I not watch?”

  “Well, I am quite in love with the older gentleman.”

  “He is not here.” He reached up to touch my face, but I recoiled. “We would not be arrested. I have a cousin in the police.”

  “Really, Mageet, thank you. But it isn’t possible.” I did not have a knife.

  Plainly disappointed he turned and left. As he was going, I pressed a five pound note into his hand. He gave to back to me. “I did not want your money. I only thought we might… Never mind. Good night. It was nice to meet you, Jamie.”

  He walked away without saying anything else. I stared after him for a while, wondering if he’d look back. He did not.

  Karnak. I had to see it. The guard at the entrance tried to stop me. It was time for me to flex my new power, if I really had it. I stared into his eyes. “You will let me in. Then you will forget about me.”

  Compliantly he unlocked the gate, and I went inside.

  Night: everything was in shadow. There was only starlight. Titanic columns surrounded me. Ancient sphinxes littered the ground. Obelisks touched the shy; Danilo told me they had been plated with gold. I wandered for what seemed hours. At one place I came upon a statue of Tutankhamen; the features were unmistakable, even in the night. The one trace of him that remained after the priests had done their work. The statue was renamed for Ramses II, but the beautiful face was Tut’s; there was no mistaking it.

  Off in the Valley of the Kings, I knew Danilo was with him. I had to force myself not to wonder what they might be doing. That I did not want to know.

  Eventually the moon rose and bathed the vast complex in cold white light. A monstrously large scarab beetle, carved in granite, blocked my way. It was chilling, it was beautiful. I could have stayed there forever. Then I happened across a snack bar, shuttered for the night. The sign read “The Temple of Coca-Cola.” So much for my mood.

  There was something I had to try. Something I remembered from the apocrypha Millie used to read. A story about Jesus Christ when his family hid in Egypt. There
was something he had done, or so the story said, that I had to try myself.

  I left the temple complex and walked to the edge of the Nile. The water lapped gently. Moonlight gleamed on its surface. From further downriver, away from the town, I could hear faintly the croaking of frogs.

  I got down on one knee and pressed my fingers into the earth. There was a thin layer of mud. Under it was clay. Firm, workable. The clay the ancients had built with. I took handfuls of it and fashioned it into little animals. A cat, a dog, a lion, a giraffe… I made a dozen or more. The last one was the Set animal.

  At the very lip of the river I lined them up, bent down close to them and breathed. I breathed life into them. Slowly, one by one, they stirred. Clay eyes opened; clay mouths gaped. They bent their heads up to look into my face, then they bowed to me.

  At my command they marched in a row. I made them rear up on their hind legs and balance. I made them bow again. When I whistled, very softly, the c minor nocturne, they danced for me. My little creatures danced to the sad, distant music of Chopin.

  I held my hand to the earth and the Set animal climbed into it. When I lifted it close to my face it nuzzled me. The little cat rubbed itself against my shoe, exactly like Bubastis.

  Bubastis. I had been away from home so very long, it seemed. It was time to go back. I was hardly the same man. The menagerie in living clay told me that, if nothing else did. I picked up my little clay cat and it licked the tip of my nose.

  I glanced at the moon. It was the Eye of Thoth. Scribe of the gods. I sent my little animals scampering to their freedom. The cat and the Set animal lingered near me the longest, but after a few moments even they ran off and vanished into the shadows of Luxor. I wondered how they would live, or how long. When the sun baked them dry, would they lose life and movement? Or would they remain creatures of the night and live forever?

  I had the blood of kings in my veins, I knew it now beyond any doubt. But I had not begun to understand what it means.

  Chapter Ten