“But,” said Aisha, “he’s not buried here!”
“Who knows?” said Howard. “Perhaps he was buried in the north, and perhaps his body was smuggled here. The valley around me is full of him. He doesn’t appear, but he keeps sending me signs.”
He got to his feet and walked across the sand toward the shadowy temple, where the wolves were tracking his every step.
At the top of his lungs he cried into the silence, “I know you’re here, somewhere near me! Why won’t you show yourself?”
10Tel al-Amarna
WHO DRAWS ASIDE THE MASKS OF TIME? Who lifts the linen wrappings from truth’s riddles? Who possesses the wisdom to comprehend the secret of death, the breath of resurrection, or the limitlessness of eternity?
On a certain night a tiny glimpse of the true nature of existence was revealed to Akhenaten. It was a night on which the wolves never left off howling with hunger and yearning. Before him there appeared a ragged-edged moon and unimaginably distant stars. He kept a solitary vigil, feeling the night’s chill like a fine needle pricking at his skin. He stood naked, defenseless, and hungry; beseeching the gods that had forsaken him and refused to give him any sign. There was no more food or drink—all that remained to him were a few papyrus scrolls, with some hymns and prayers inscribed upon them, before Atun abandoned him and disappeared beyond the horizon. Why do the gods suddenly desert us just when we are in the greatest need of them? Even the moon had begun to set behind the trees, at the precise time when his spirit required a glimmer of light. He fixed his gaze upon the silvery forest that surrounded him—these dew-spangled trees were his last comfort, this was the place that had granted him solitude in a world where enemies proliferated and friends were few. How might it be possible to expel from people’s souls the bitter resentments of the bygone days of their enslavement—enslavement by many-faced gods and all-powerful priests? He suddenly understood how difficult it was to bear the burden of bringing change to a world so profoundly vast and eternal.
He knew that his body, chilled and solitary, could be warmed only by the touch of Nefertiti—his wife, his beloved—and that nothing would fill this desolate silence but the laughter of his daughters. He rose, despite the pain in his desiccated joints. He stood straight, in all the strangeness of his aspect—his belly distended like a waterskin, his bulgy knees looking as if they had been put together wrong. The sun had tanned his exposed skin, and beneath it his ribs protruded, prominent and sharp. The sun had risen and set upon his naked body seven continuous days, each of them like the first day of creation, his undefended hide the first to drink up its rays and the last to be deprived of its heat. In these moments the sun is for the new god alone, that it might impart to him some of its secrets, or even give them all to him.
He descended the hill. Waiting for him at the bottom was a detachment of guards who had been stationed there for a whole week, anticipating that he might appear at any moment—or perhaps not at all. The soldiers averted their eyes so that none of them would glimpse any part of the sacred Pharaoh’s naked flesh. The greatest of Atun’s priests hurried forward, carrying a white abaya embroidered with threads of gold forming the disc of the sun, whose rays took the shape of outspread arms. He draped this over the Pharaoh’s shoulders. The guards surrounded him; ordinarily, on seeing him they would fling themselves upon the ground and rub their faces in the dust, but the Pharaoh had forbidden this practice. It was enough for him that they bow slightly, and he permitted them to come so close to him that they could smell the fragrance of the camphor that anointed his body. Not far from them stood his own winged chariot, with white horses harnessed to it, white being the color reserved to the Pharaoh alone.
The hill overlooked a wide lake, Lake Bayim, from which had come the clay of first creation, and whose bottom still preserved earth’s memory. In its waters the god bathed before rising. The heads of crocodiles protruded from it, and herons glided upon its surface, awaiting the moment of sunrise and awakening. Traced upon its ripples were the paths of the sun, moon, clouds, and stars. Beyond the lake a basin of clay stretched all the way to the edge of the silver forest, the place Akhenaten had chosen for his seclusion—here was the realm of Atun, the place he came from, although it was a dangerous region, thorny and filled with the dens of wolves and jackals. But in this way are gods normally born.
The Pharaoh shivered, feeling the touch of the cloth upon his skin. He did not wish for anything to divide him from the world’s air, but he pulled the abaya about himself and made his way to the chariot. The guards mounted their stallions and formed ranks behind him, so as to follow the chariot, which he himself was accustomed to drive. He took the lead, feeling that he had returned suddenly to the real world. Awaiting him was a far-flung and profoundly unsettled nation: to the south were the rebellious priests of Thebes who would not support him or follow his religion, while to the north, on the fringes of the desert, his enemies from the tribes of Asia stood poised, demanding of him their revenge now that his father was dead—his father, who had relentlessly oppressed them and laid waste their cities. He had more enemies than one person could absorb, but happily his wife and daughters were constant, always awaiting him: droplets of love united in a tidal wave of hostility—was it really necessary that the people love him? He remembered the words that his mother, Queen Tiye, had repeated to him again and again: “Don’t aspire to their love—it is a waste of time. Make them fear you, that they may obey you blindly.”
But who held such power as hers? His father, Amenhotep himself, who had subdued the Hittites and the Nubians, stood trembling in awe of her, stripped of divinity. Tiye was a true goddess, possessed by the spirit of Isis. The guards of the palace used to whisper that on moonlit nights she changed into a hungry wolf, swiftly traversing the palace corridors and howling with insatiable appetite. He had continued to be afraid of her even after he became a young man. When he chose Nefertiti as his wife, Tiye did not conceal her distaste for Nefertiti’s strange appearance—her pale skin, long neck, and her wide eyes, which held a trace of sadness. She always said to him, “She doesn’t look properly Egyptian. What sort of blood runs in her veins?”
His father satisfied himself with giving him a look of sympathy. The old conqueror of Asia was swiftly declining toward the infirmity of age, and he had no faith in the abilities of the heir who would follow him to the throne to hold the reins of control—with his crooked legs, distended belly, and protuberant features. A king such as this—how would he be able to rule so vast an empire?
Without thinking about it, Akhenaten tightened the reins in one hand while wielding the whip he bore in the other. The chariot passed through the shadowy forest, and the guards could not keep up with him. It was as if the cares of the world, from which he had been fleeing all this time, had begun pursuing him in earnest.
All at once a wolf blocked his way. A huge animal, such as he had never seen before, it stood right in the middle of the path, indifferent to the hooves of the horses thundering toward it. It bared its teeth and bent upon him its luminous eyes—perhaps it was Queen Tiye, risen to warn him about something. The wolf let out a strange howl. Akhenaten tugged hard enough at the reins nearly to choke the horses, and they reared up on their hind legs, their hooves digging tracks in the earth. He felt himself flung high into the air and falling into the middle of a thicket of trees. He did not lose consciousness, but his whole body ached. He was pierced by thorns on all sides. It was then he saw the little points of light that approached him like tiny embers; moonlight filtered in through the tree branches and revealed their bodies—they drew so close to him that he could detect their rank odor. He lay there unable to rise, or to move at all. They formed a half circle around him, ceaselessly panting, mouths agape and tongues hanging out, as if they were deliberating, considering whether this meager meal was worth the trouble of attacking it.
One of the wolves howled shrilly, as if calling upon the whole pack to pounce—he felt their claws tearing into his flesh. He clos
ed his eyes and waited for their jaws to close upon him—what was the point of immortality? Useless! Then there was a cry—not a wolf’s howl, but a muffled shout, a tremor, and a jet of some sort of hot liquid. The claws froze and the teeth did not come. The howling voices rose, but still the warm body held fast to him where he lay trembling. He opened his eyes to find that a viscous liquid covered his face, and the body of a wolf clung to him, still struggling, with an arrow piercing its belly.
He pushed the wolf’s corpse off of him and tried to raise his head. The rest of the wolves had fled, but he caught sight of something else: an apparition, white as a wisp of fog. The Pharaoh focused his eyes upon it as the phantom came closer. The characteristics of its body began to take shape: a tall, broad-shouldered figure, wearing a white abaya and carrying a bow in one hand, a quiver full of arrows in the other. It extended its powerful arm and lifted the Pharaoh’s slight body out of the briars.
“As ever,” said Akhenaten, “you’ve come just in time, Horemheb!”
Before Akhenaten could collapse upon the ground, Horemheb offered his hand and supported the Pharaoh’s body, naked now that his abaya had been torn to shreds. Horemheb took off his own abaya and wrapped Akhenaten in it, revealing a pleasingly muscular body. Effortlessly, he picked up the Pharaoh, slung him over his shoulder, and bore him through the forest.
The Pharaoh regained consciousness only after two days. At first he thought he had been plunged into a ghastly nightmare, but his face was covered with wounds and his body ached with bruises. Nefertiti’s lovely face was looking down at him, her wide eyes full of fear. “Atun,” she said, “we were afraid you would depart, and leave us.”
He attempted a smile and replied, “The time has not yet come.”
Taking his words as a sign of encouragement, his six daughters burst in all at once, rushing over to his bed and surrounding him on all sides. These were moments of ease and peace in his life, when he felt that he was not pursued and threatened. He stroked the girls’ curly hair—they bore many of their mother’s characteristics: Nefertiti with her concave belly, delicate features, and narrow frame suitable only for bearing girls. He would have liked them to acquire from her some of the beauty with which she was abundantly endowed, but she had not given much of it to her daughters. He embraced the eldest, Ankhesen. He always felt secretly apologetic toward her for wishing that she had been a boy, so as to put an end to any anticipated rivalry for the throne. Then, too, Ankhesen, first in a line of female offspring, had inherited her mother’s graceful height, but she was stronger, as if she had been about to be born male but had changed her sex at the last moment.
They brought him newly baked bread, fruit, and fresh milk. He ate a little and then, feeling that he had regained some of his strength, he rose from his bed and stood on the balcony, which overlooked the new city, Akhetaten. He had chosen this site carefully, so that it would be central to his kingdom, which extended far to the north and south, and so that it would be far from Thebes (that city of hostilities and evil gods). Before him was a plain that stretched as far as the eye could see, raised slightly above the banks of the Nile, so that it would not be vulnerable to the perils of flooding. To the west his city was bounded by the Nile, while the east was enclosed by rocky slopes in such a way as to defend it from sudden attack and to supply the stone necessary for construction of its buildings. There was also, on its periphery, a deep valley that could serve as a burial ground for all the kings when they were made ready for immortality. Indeed, workers and builders had begun constructing a new tomb for him in this valley. This was the city of light, as he had dreamed it would be—its limestone sparkled every morning when Atun’s sun rose upon it. It was a divine city, with no room for darkness or treachery. Within a few years, the people would recognize how important was the call he had issued—everyone, whether here in the Nile Valley or in faraway lands, would realize that they shared a single god.
A guard entered, bowed, and announced the arrival of Commander Horemheb. He was among the few people who were permitted to enter the inner quarters of the palace and to see the Pharaoh without his throne and other regal appurtenances. A man of towering height, he entered, clad in his warrior’s garb fashioned from leather strips and pieces of metal, as if he were ready to go into battle at once. The Pharaoh did not care for these ostentatious military uniforms, but he loved Horemheb. From the time they were small they had never been apart, and it was Horemheb who always intervened at the right moment and guaranteed his safety. He stopped before the Pharaoh, head bowed.
“Greetings, bold leader,” said Akhenaten. “Once more you have saved my life, and I am obliged to you yet again. Ask of me what you wish!”
Horemheb took a step forward and stood up straight, to emphasize his words. “My lord, I wish to go to war.”
Hearing the determination in Horemheb’s voice, Akhenaten grew pale. So it was war again, was it? The word by which his father had lived his life, repeating it over and over. He died before resolving his battles. Akhenaten was silent. He was on the point of refusing the commander’s request—a request set in the balance against his own rescue from certain death. At last he spoke. “I do not want Akhetaten to be a city of war and killing,” he said. “I want to dedicate her to life—to sowing and planting and reaping, to dancing and singing and love. That is her true mark of distinction.”
With the same resolve as before, Horemheb said, “If this city does not go to war, then war will come to her streets. Your enemies believe that when you left Thebes you were running away—that you were weak. They think your armies are riven with internal disputes, and they are picking quarrels with the Egyptian garrison at the northern borders. If we do not go to them, they will cross the land of Canaan, our ally, and then they will enter our own lands at the Valley of Turquoise and attack us.”
Akhenaten held his breath. Horemheb had changed abruptly from a human being to a figure made of bronze, likewise hard and unyielding. He didn’t know whether he would be able to reach him with his words, but he said, “Atun is not a god of war, and I will not dishonor his name with fighting. We are no longer at Thebes, with its wicked god, Amun. He was a primitive god who would not be sated but with blood, and who knew nothing but the language of war. Therefore, no one believed in him, but rather feared him. We must give those foreigners a god they can understand and love, and then they, too, will leave off warmongering and slaughter.”
“My lord,” said Horemheb, “they are barbarian tribes, and their thinking has not risen to this level—such ideas will not put an end to their insatiable thirst for killing and plundering. Our confederate in Canaan has sent a message warning us of their continual assaults upon his garrison. When our enemies have advanced so far, we must wage war to defend Egypt’s gateways. Even the god of peace, my lord, needs strength.”
Once more the Pharaoh shook his head in refusal. Horemheb fell to his knees. He knew better than anyone the perils that beset the country. As a warrior he had crossed the desert; he had grown to manhood and risen in the ranks, amid bloodshed and the clash of swords. But enemies were thousand-headed beasts—each time you lopped off one head, another grew in its place. And now here were these foes rising up once again, demanding revenge for all their past defeats. He again took up his pleas, speaking as if reciting an incantation, “They are like locusts, my lord. Once they have descended upon our valley, not a temple, not a village, not a city will be left: the green earth will turn to wasteland and the river will fill with blood. The only thing they believe in is the power of fire, and they leave behind them nothing but the ashes of conflagration. Before they set upon us we must go to them and engage them in the final battle.”
Horemheb’s eloquence was great—greater than the powers of a grim-faced soldier. Yet the Pharaoh appeared all but unmoved. “There is no such thing as a final battle, Horemheb. When war begins, it never ends. Seek a different resolution, other than bloodshed—negotiate, conciliate . . .”
Horemheb rose from the floo
r, his face dark with anger. He strode rapidly to one of the guards and snatched the sword from his hand. For a moment Akhenaten drew back in fear, but Horemheb turned the blade, pointed it toward his own chest and cried, “I am a man of war! I have no skill with negotiation and conciliation! Let me fight, or I shall kill myself now, before your eyes!”
They stood face-to-face, both of them shaking. In such a moment was the fate of a vast nation determined. On what power should it rely? The light of the sun, or the spark that flashes at the point of a sword? It was up to the Pharaoh to choose, but it was not within his power. He did not want to lose the commander, his friend, and he did not know where the truth lay: in his heart or in Horemheb’s sword. “Give me some time, then, to reach a decision,” he said weakly, sitting down on a chair. “It is not easy to pray for life while at the same time sending out armies of death.”
Horemheb turned and left, his brow still clouded. Akhenaten sat on alone. Then he heard the sound of a footfall so light it barely touched the ground. He could smell her perfume as she drew near to him—she, the one person who could rouse him from his reverie. She knelt upon the floor before him and leaned toward him. He gazed into her wide eyes, which were filled with yearning and sorrow. He brushed her neck with his lips, as he loved to do, and felt a tremor in his body as she responded to him. She was responsive, too, in bed, but without tiring him or overtaxing his virility. Her desire was always proportional to his own, their appetites compatible. She was content with his satiety, and he needed only her body, no concubine’s, despite his pressing need for a male heir to his throne—he could imagine none coming from any womb but hers.
A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Page 36