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Beketaten’s funeral was conducted in the blazing height of summer without so much as a single flower to lay upon the nest of gilded coffins. The hand of the god lay heavy on those who stood outside the rock tomb, listening to Meryra and his priests recite from the Teaching. Nowhere in the beautiful words was there a suggestion of punishment or retribution, yet Egypt panted, shrunken and dying in the grip of famine and disease. No feast took place afterward, and the participants parted quietly, seeking a solace that no longer existed in the palace.
New Year’s Day was celebrated in a continuation of the fatalistic mood that had surrounded the funeral; it was more like a gathering of outcasts or a drawing together of the wounded for comfort than a demonstration of Egyptian power. No foreign delegations waited to pay homage to Pharaoh and present rich gifts. Few courtiers could summon the optimism to flaunt new fashions on a day when traditionally every important official displayed his power and the climbers made themselves eagerly obvious. No mayors presented the good wishes and bounty of their cities, and one by one they sent apologies for their absence. They were all trying to cope with fresh crops of bodies in their streets every morning; epidemics of disease, blindness, and paralysis; and outbreaks of violence between the fellahin, who had left the land that held only death, and the townspeople, who had little and did not wish to share what they had. Even Horemheb was not present, having been called urgently to Memphis to deal with a mutiny in the barracks there. Mutnodjme, as unruffled and indifferent as ever, kissed Pharaoh’s feet and laid the artificial flowers of custom across them. Meritaten sat beside her father in glittering gold and blue eye paint, but she was withdrawn. Tiye did not attend. After the news of Tia-Ha’s death she had suffered a collapse, a small fever accompanied by throbbing joints and a recurrence of abdominal pain that kept her on her couch. Ay held the fan by his lord’s right knee, as outwardly confident as ever, but he would meet no one’s eye.
The feast that followed, though it featured many entertainers, was sparsely attended, and the laughter of the guests was more dutiful than gay. By midnight Pharaoh was alone on the dais amid the ruins of the meal, and the great hall was empty but for Smenkhara, who sat cross-legged before his little table, head sunk onto one palm, picking moodily at the dry bread remaining on his plate. Servants stood motionless in the shadows that drowned the walls, out of reach of the few torches that still guttered. The queen had excused herself much earlier, pleading a faintness in the close heat. Behind Akhenaten his fanbearers, steward, and butler waited patiently for him to leave, but he made no move, his mouth parting occasionally, as though he were going to speak. The cloying stench of discarded perfume cones hung in the unmoving air, mixing with the odor of stale food.
Smenkhara was sunk in some gloomy reverie of his own, only his fingers moving among the crumbs and shreds of black bread. At first he did not hear his name, but Pharaoh called again, and Smenkhara looked up, startled.
“Majesty?”
“Come up here, Prince.”
Obediently, Smenkhara rose and mounted the dais, bowing low several times. Akhenaten indicated Meritaten’s vacant chair, eyeing him expressionlessly for several seconds, and then smiled slowly.
“Smenkhara,” he whispered, “what has happened to the most favored nation under heaven? Everywhere I look there is pain and death. Even here, in the place the Aten chose for his own abode, there is evil. I am used up, I am become as a discarded pot. My prayers do not leave my mouth and taste of famine. My breath is as the khamsin; it blows only death.” He stopped and swallowed, and Smenkhara could still hear the emotion Pharaoh was trying to control. “I, the one who stood between the god and the people, do not know what to do. My intercessions are not heard. The god no longer gives me direction.” The full, orange-painted lips shook as his gold-draped shoulders hunched. “I had thought when I made you my heir, the god would be satisfied, but it is not so. It was not enough.” He pressed both palms together, and Smenkhara watched the fastidious fingers knit around one another with the slow tightening of extreme agony. “For some reason that I do not understand, my divine father has repudiated me. He no longer loves me. My immortal task must go to you.” Behind him Smenkhara heard a sharp intake of breath and thought it must be Ay.
“Majesty,” he said, “I do not know what you mean.”
“I must pass my powers to you. Already the Aten is changing your body, fashioning it after the pattern he most desired in me. You will officiate in the temple and make known the god’s will to the people.”
“But, Horus, I do not want to!” Smenkhara stuttered, suddenly cold. “The god has not indicated anything of the sort to me! I am only a prince, a Horus-Fledgling. I know nothing of the Teaching!”
“Neither did I until the god chose to enlighten me.” Akhenaten’s voice was muffled, his eyes big with tears. “In another month the river should begin to rise if I have done right in the sight of the Disk.”
Smenkhara stared at him. “You are giving me the Horus Throne? You are descending the Holy Steps? A pharaoh cannot relinquish his divinity to another except by death!”
“No, I will remain the ruler upon the throne, Divine Incarnation in Egypt. I do not give you power to rule, only to pray. One day you will be the Aten’s incarnation, but he wishes to bring you into his family now. His ears will be open only to you. Keeper, take the crown and regalia. Parennefer, clear the passages. We will go to my chamber.” He unlocked his fingers and drew them down Smenkhara’s cheek, and something in the suddenly languid almond eyes made the young man draw back quickly. “Come, Smenkhara,” Pharaoh urged as the keeper removed the crown and replaced it with a white linen scarf, laying the crook and flail beside the scimitar in the gold chest. “I will bestow on you true membership in the royal family.”
“But I am royal already!” Smenkhara blurted, now frightened. “My mother is empress, my father…” His words trailed away as he caught Ay’s stern glance over Akhenaten’s shoulder. The warning was unmistakable. For a second Smenkhara almost flung himself from the dais to seek the sanctuary of his own quarters, but instead he shakily rose with Pharaoh. Akhenaten put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. His breath was coming hard, and his nails stroked Smenkhara’s oil-streaked bare flesh. The herald began to call a warning to all who might meet the Lord of All Life.
Pharaoh did not relinquish his hold on the prince until they were behind the closed doors of the royal bedchamber, and then it was only to wave his body servants out. He seemed to have recovered from his solemn mood. His smile was indulgent, encouraging, his eyes sparkling. Pouring wine, he held it out to Smenkhara, who snatched it and drank deeply, the silver rim of the cup chattering against his teeth. He was beginning to sweat. Akhenaten came close, slipping the blue and white ribbons from the young man’s head and running his hands over the smooth skull, down the cheeks, across the cold mouth. “You are very handsome,” he said. Smenkhara could not meet his eye. He stood trembling, with head hanging like that of a sacrificial ox. Akhenaten lifted away his necklaces, removed his bracelets, and took his rings, kissing each finger as he did so. He was panting, the thin breast rapidly rising and falling. He began to dabble and then to knead his fingers in the perfumed oil that had melted from Smenkhara’s cone and now smeared his chest. Smenkhara squeezed his eyes shut, trying frantically to escape in his mind: to Meritaten and the balmy days together at Malkatta, giggling and drinking beer in the garden. To his barge on a full-flowing river, fishing rod in his hands. To his new friends, who flocked after him with small gifts and called him Highness.
But he could not shut out the revulsion he felt at Pharaoh’s touch. The hands were now on his neck. Akhenaten’s perfumed breath was in his nostrils. He opened his eyes to see the long face coming close, the thick mouth slightly parted. I must not flee, he thought grimly. If I do, I may lose my chance to sit on the throne. If I displease him, Pharaoh might even choose Tutankhaten over me for an heir, and I would stay a prince forever and never have Meritaten
.
The lips met his own, withdrew, and returned with more assurance as he was pulled against the god’s soft body. Pharaoh’s questing hands slid down Smenkhara’s straight back, met the edge of the kilt and, loosening it, let it fall. The oil-slick fingers dug into the firm buttocks, the mouth moved down Smenkhara’s neck. In spite of himself, the young man felt his bowels loosen. “Be brave, Prince,” Akhenaten murmured, drawing away and smiling sleepily. “This is necessary.” He sat on the edge of the couch and drew Smenkhara toward him.
Later he lay with his arm around his brother, Smenkhara’s head pillowed on his shoulder. A wind had risen, and puffs of dust blew in through the slits under the ceiling and drifted around the window hangings. It was almost dawn, but apart from the light of one somber yellow lamp the room was dark.
“You are a good man, very willing,” Pharaoh said. “You can be assured of the Aten’s favor. You already have mine. Let me give you a present, Smenkhara. What would you like?”
I would like to run to the river and plunge in and wash and wash, Smenkhara thought bitterly, full of shame and humiliation. But an idea came to him, and he raised himself on one elbow, looking down through the dimness onto the calm face.
“If I have pleased you, Majesty Brother, if you love me and truly want to reward me, give me Meritaten.”
Akhenaten’s features froze. “That is not possible.”
“Why? You have the authority. I am now your heir. Have you forgotten how your predecessor refused you Queen Sitamun, your own sister, how he made you wait until he was dead? Do not make me wait thus for Meritaten.” The underlying threat was obvious, as Smenkhara intended: If you make me wait, I shall despise you as you despised Osiris Amunhotep. Smenkhara, watching him closely, saw the battle between Pharaoh’s hatred of his father and his own sense of ownership reflected in the wide eyes. Tensely he waited until finally Pharaoh sighed.
“I have not forgotten. How could I? Very well, Smenkhara, we will share her. After all, we are one family.”
“No! No, Majesty, you have me now, and I will be dutiful and obedient, I swear. But as I am the next incarnation, Meritaten is mine alone, by right. Beketaten is dead.”
“There is Ankhensenpaaten.”
Smenkhara unscrupulously threw the winning dice. “True,” he whispered, “but the Aten has already shown me that I am your successor. He came to me in a dream last night and told me that you would give Meritaten to me.”
Akhenaten lay very still. Slowly an expression of great sadness softened his face, and he looked up beseechingly. “The god spoke to you? Ah, Smenkhara, how fortunate you are! I long for the voice I used to hear. Very well. If it is the will of the Disk, I will give her to you.”
Smenkhara’s eyes widened. He could not believe that Pharaoh had capitulated so easily. “Thank you,” he said, unable to keep the joy out of his voice.
Akhenaten smiled. “If you are truly grateful, then kiss me.”
For a moment Smenkhara regarded Pharaoh’s expectantly parted lips, but then, stiffening his resolve, he lowered his head and kissed them.
Akhenaten made no effort to keep his relationship with his brother a secret; indeed, he would have considered it unnatural to do so. He made it known that he had consecrated Smenkhara to the service of the god with his body, conferring power on him in the only way he thought acceptable. Akhetaten and the court were past caring. After one disillusioned glance at the couple who paraded through the palace arm in arm, caressed each other, and were seen with mouths and bodies pressed together at every opportunity, their anxious eyes returned to the river. The time of Inundation had come and gone once again, but the level did not change, and by now it was actually shrinking, the water gradually evaporating into the dry, hot air.
Akhenaten continued to be unconcerned. “Soon the floods will come,” he assured everyone. “Smenkhara is communing with the god.” In the long, arid nights Smenkhara would make love to his lord with proper attention and afterward lie increasingly glibly as Akhenaten questioned him about the Aten’s desires and pronouncements. There would be a flood, Smenkhara told him with desperation, but it would be late. Egypt had to learn patience.
Akhenaten soon began to call his brother by the affectionate title once bestowed on Nefertiti, Nefer-neferu-Aten, Great Is the Beauty of the Aten, and Smenkhara allowed himself to be also addressed as “Beloved of Akhenaten,” for Pharaoh was pouring out all his love on the young man. Akhenaten had even commissioned two statues from the artists Kenofer and Auta, one showing the king with his left arm around the prince and his right hand caressing Smenkhara’s chin, the other, never finished, portraying them kissing. Both statues showed the royal bodies as grossly deformed. Smenkhara watched them emerge from the stone with an ominous horror. He did not like to be reminded of his slowly elongating skull, the layer of fat building on his belly that no amount of exercise seemed to control. To Pharaoh such physical changes were a sign of the god’s favor. To Smenkhara they were a terrifying vision of the future that drove him to seek ever more fervently the pleasures of the present.
Khoyak, Tybi, and Mekhir came and went. The momentary hope that this year an Inundation would occur, which had brought a semblance of official bustle to the court, began to die. Pharaoh still paraded to and from the temple, Smenkhara on his arm, stopping at the Window of Appearances to smile and encourage the few city dwellers who gathered to catch a glimpse of him. He still played with his children, sat in public audience, and presided over the feasts, but it was as though he suffered from some inner blindness, unable to see the reality pressing ever more inexorably around him. The view from the Window of Appearances itself was stark. The myriads of trees were dead, the beautiful lawns were disappearing under the encroaching desert sand, and the people, though still lining up at the palace granaries every day, were thinner and silent. The city smelled of disease and excrement. Pharaoh’s daughters greeted him in a quiet, half-empty nursery. His audiences were held for ghosts. All the foreign delegations had left Akhetaten.
But some official acts were still performed. Pharaoh, by now anxious to do anything that would lift the Aten’s curse from Egypt, at last dictated and sealed a contract of marriage between Smenkhara and Meritaten. On the night when the young man was to receive his wife, he waited for her in his quarters. He was very calm, almost cold, the time long gone when excitement could have touched him. Even when he saw her standing in the doorway, her servants retreating and his own door slaves bowing low before closing behind her, his heart did not falter. She had dressed simply in a yellow pleated gown caught over one shoulder. A golden fillet lay over her straight black hair, and thin gold links went around her wrists and one ankle. Smenkhara watched her come gliding over the dusty floor. He felt nothing, only a formless sadness that welled up where his great love for her had been. For a long time they stood looking at each other. Finally he spread his arms wide, and she stepped into his embrace. He was content to hold her, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the warmth and perfume of her firm young body, his eyes closed against the anguish that caught in his throat and threatened to spill over in tears. She pulled away and attempted to smile at him, her mouth trembling, her own tears running down her painted cheeks. With a cry he kissed them away and then sought her mouth. She had not changed much. Childbearing had widened her hips a little. Her breasts were fuller, her eyes steadier. Yet although he went on kissing her, he continued to feel nothing. Even tenderness had gone. There was only the terrible, aching sadness. Gently he drew her down onto the couch, pushing aside her linens, telling himself that now finally he was free to touch her wherever he wanted. He had waited and won her. She was his. She lay quietly, one arm loosely around his neck, watching him, still crying. After some minutes he flung away. “I cannot!” he choked. “Amun help me, I cannot!” He sat staring down at his hands. “It is useless. We are not the same.”
She turned her head away. “No,” she whispered. “We are not the same.”
Akhenaten went into Ankhesenpaa
ten’s apartment. His third daughter had left the nursery the year before, having become a woman and proudly performed the rite of passage. Her youth lock had been removed and her hair allowed to grow, so that now it lay at chin length, glossy and black, framing a big-eyed, pretty little face. With her new status had come her own suite of rooms in the palace, together with her own staff. She was a happy, uncomplicated child with her father’s love of nature. As she heard him announced, she left the floor where she had been sorting her trinkets and ran into his arms. He hugged her fondly.
“You look very fresh today,” he said. “I see you are wearing the circlet of onyx flowers I sent you. You are like a flower yourself, Ankhesenpaaten. Are your women looking after you properly?”
“Of course they are! Grandfather was here earlier, bringing me these bracelets. Tey made them. What do you think?” She scooped them off the floor and dribbled them into his hands.
“They are lovely, but I wish it had been possible to bring you real lotus blossoms.” Akhenaten handed them back. “Even a water lily would be a wonder.”
“Do not worry.” She touched his cheek. “The Aten has promised Prince Smenkhara that his anger is almost over. We have not fared too badly, have we, Father? Egypt is strong!”
“You are right. Now, dear one, order your women out. I wish to speak with you alone.”
Ankhesenpaaten called, and one by one the servants left. Akhenaten took her hand and led her to her couch. Sitting, he reached for her. “Come onto my lap,” he smiled, “and listen carefully. You know that your sister now belongs to Smenkhara?”
“Yes, of course. The women have been gossiping about it. They are saying that the prince has wanted Meritaten for a long time.”
The Twelfth Transforming Page 42