The Amarnan Kings, Book 2: Scarab - Smenkhkare

by Overton, Max

  Usermontju snorted. "Then there is no lion?"

  "There is a lion, though maybe not a cattle killer. It will take him a week to get to Djeba, but when he does, he will find more than a lion awaits him. I have a company of picked men who will kill him. Another week to get the news back to Waset and in the chaos, we strike."

  "You mean for my troops to take the city?" Psenamy asked.

  "No, Usermontju's Medjay will be enough for that. You will be busy elsewhere."

  "Oh, doing what?"

  "In a moment. Now, news of the death of Smenkhkare arrives in the city. Immediately, for their own protection of course, the Council is placed in custody by the Medjay. Bakt announces the temples closed in mourning, including the temple granaries; and Kheper, as head of the Guild of Corn Factors, closes the markets, effectively shutting off food from the city."

  "What of Amenemhet and Aanen, first and second prophets?" Bakt said worriedly. "If they countermand my orders there is nothing I can do."

  "Amenemhet will be in Ineb Hedj and Aanen in Iunu by then. I have asked them to check on the return of the worship of Amun in those cities."

  "And what of me?" asked Kheper. "You are casting me in a less than favourable role, cutting off food supplies. There will be rioting when food runs short and they will blame me."

  "There is enough food in the city for two days before the granaries need be breached. Usermontju's Medjay will keep the councilors locked up and keep order in the city. If any complain, they will explain that the food has been cut off on the orders of the King's Council."

  "And after two days...?"

  "News will reach the city that Akhenaten has gone mad and abdicated in favour of his brother Tutankhaten. The boy's first act as de facto king will be to open the granaries. The citizens will be feeling the first bite of hunger by then and will praise his magnanimity. Then he will formally renounce the Aten heresy and restore freedom of worship. The people will love him."

  "And I?" Psenamy asked. "What will I be doing while Waset falls?"

  "You will leave Waset with your legion on the day after Smenkhkare sails south and will be in Akhet-Aten, taking the heretic into custody. The timing is not too important here as a messenger will arrive from the capital with the news of the king's abdication on the right day, even if it has not happened yet."

  "But I am to only capture him rather than killing him?"

  "Gods, yes. He is heretic but he is also an anointed and consecrated king of Kemet. Such an action would be god-cursed. It would shake the foundations of our society, destroy Ma'at, if he were assassinated, so he will not be killed, just locked up for his own good." Ay smiled broadly. "The news of his brother's death will no doubt completely unhinge his mind, making it necessary for the only other male relative to step in."

  Psenamy frowned. "But you would kill Smenkhkare? He too is a consecrated king."

  "True, but he will die as the result of a hunting accident. Also, he is only co-regent, the lesser king. Do not worry about that aspect, Psenamy...or any of you. I have thought it through most carefully. We will arrange to get Tutankhaten down to Waset within the month and I will have things prepared for his coronation."

  "So soon?" Bakt looked faintly shocked. "It is usual for the heir to bury his predecessor and that cannot happen for the seventy days of the Preparation."

  "There will be a burial. The Seventy Days of Preparation will take place, the king, what is left of him, or his effigy will be buried, and the new king crowned. Akhenaten will be alive but in custody and Smenkhkare will, for all people know, be in the belly of a lion."

  "So we have Smenkhkare dead, the Council in custody, Akhenaten locked up and Tutankhaten crowned as king," Maya said. "What then? What is my role in this?"

  "Treasurer Sutau is a councilor and regrettably will have succumbed to anxiety." Ay shrugged. "He is an old man, after all. That is where you come in, Maya. I will appoint you Treasurer, an interim position of course, until the king can confirm your appointment. You will, as Treasurer, provide us with the funds necessary to complete our task."

  "I don't like the idea of just locking the heretic up," Bakt said. "He could be a focus for disaffection. The Aten still has supporters. What if he escapes?"

  "Psenamy will make sure he does not. It will only be for a while, just long enough for people to forget him, and then he can quietly die of snakebite or some disease or other. Something from the gods."

  "Where will he keep him?"

  "The North Palace for a start. Make sure he is comfortable but do not allow him access to anyone important."

  "But that can only be a temporary measure," Bakt grumbled. "Too many people will know he is there."

  "Nonsense. People will be glad to be rid of him and he will be powerless. After a month or two, Psenamy can return to Waset leaving a competent officer in charge until such time as the former king meets with an accident."

  Bakt scowled. "It seems to me that everyone here has a task that can easily be explained away as working to save Kemet from anarchy, but I am doing nothing except closing the temples. What do I get out of all this?"

  "Why, the satisfaction of knowing you had returned Amun to his full power, glory and wealth." Ay smiled, watching Bakt's eyes carefully. "Of course," he added softly, "I planned on making you First Prophet of Amun and Hem-netjer. Would you be willing to take on this extra burden?"

  Greed glowed in Bakt's eyes. "First? What of Amenemhet? And your brother Aanen for that matter?"

  "Let me worry about that. In a month's time, Amun will have a new Hem-netjer." He looked around at the five men preparing to take over a kingdom. "I will visit each of you in the next few days and go over in detail the part you will play in our venture, but for now I bid you farewell." Ay raised his wine cup with a smile. "Gentlemen, let us drink to a new Kemet and the health of our young king Tutankhaten."

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  Chapter Four

  Ankhkheperure Djeserkheperure Smenkhkare, co-regent, King of the Two Lands, Lord of the Land of the Nine Bows and highest in the land save for his weak brother Akhenaten in his far off city of the Sun; paced the floor of the upstairs reception chamber in the old palace at Waset. Although rich beyond the imagination of most men, having the treasury of Kemet at his disposal, he dressed simply in a fine white linen kilt and ordinary leather sandals. His sole ornamentation was a plain gold band around his upper left arm and a large emerald ring on the middle finger of his left hand. The fact that the ring alone would have kept a small town supplied with food for a year did not register on his mind. In his own eyes the ring was just one he liked.

  "It is intolerable that my sister should be attacked on the streets of Waset, in broad daylight." Smenkhkare stopped and glared at Scarab. "What were you doing down near the docks anyway?"

  Scarab raised an eyebrow but otherwise kept her face expressionless. "You sound as though you hold me responsible for my own attack." She smoothed her own thin linen gown and played absently with a large blue and red scarab brooch on her left shoulder. "As for being near the docks..." She shrugged. "Have you not taken me there yourself?"

  Smenkhkare ignored the question and started pacing once more. "Would you recognise the man if you saw him again?"

  "I've already told you, brother. It was Mentopher."

  "Ay's steward, yes I know."

  "But you don't believe me. Why not?"

  "When you first told me I sent Usermontju, the chief of the Medjay to Ay's palace with a squad of men to arrest this Mentopher. Do you know what he found?"

  "That he had fled, of course. I did not think he would meekly wait to be caught."

  "No sister, he had not fled. He was there but he could not have done it. At the time you say he was leading an attack on you and Khu, he was lying in agony on his sleeping mat. It seems he broke one of Ay's favourite cups and was beaten for his clumsiness."

  Scarab's calmness cracked and she frowned. "You took Ay's word?"

  "Not just
Ay. Usermontju saw him and examined the wounds. He could not have moved off his pallet yesterday."

  Scarab turned away and moved to the balcony overlooking the river and the far bank with its great mortuary temples. She gripped the ledge hard, her knuckles whitening. "And what of the report from Ptahwery and Ahhotep?"

  "Usermontju investigated that too. Ay released his records and revealed seventy slaves branded with the Heru emblem. Of those seventy, thirty-four have died, thirteen escaped, five were sold on and eighteen remain in Ay's employ."

  "One of whom is Mentopher."

  "Five witnesses swear he has not stirred outside the palace or its grounds this past month."

  Scarab turned to face her brother across the room. "All Ay's men of course?"

  "Of course, but in the eyes of the law they are still witnesses and even two are enough to exonerate a person."

  "You know as well as I that Ay and Mentopher are guilty. Could you not have them..." Scarab's voice trailed off and she looked down at the floor.

  "Have them put to the question? Is that what you were about to say?"

  Scarab shook her head but would not meet her brother's eyes. "No. I didn't..." With an effort she looked up at Smenkhkare's expressionless face, searching it for her brother rather than the king. "Yes, that is what I meant, but I withdraw my words unspoken."

  "Good." Smenkhkare looked away, scanning the room and its rich furnishings as if they could inspire his thoughts. "I could do it, sister. I could use my power as king and have Ay and Mentopher executed and few would mourn them. Fewer still would blame me and none to my face, but I cannot, will not, be that type of king. I will rule my people, all my people, with fairness and justice."

  Scarab sighed and turned to look out of the window once more. "So he escapes again."

  "Mentopher? You know of another occasion?"

  "I meant Ay."

  Smenkhkare crossed the room and stood close to his sister. "We shall soon be rid of Ay. I have retired him to his estates in Zarw. He leaves office at the end of the month. He is an old man and will soon be harmless."

  "I'd like to believe that."

  "Believe it. After this month you will probably never see Ay again. Now forget him." Smenkhkare turned his sister to face the open balcony and pointed. "There, what do you see?"

  In the distance, where the great plateau of the western desert crumbled and broke into great dry valleys that opened out onto rich farmland surrounding the mortuary temples, a thick black shroud folded over the land, blurring the junction of land and sky. As they watched, thin jagged pieces of light as bright as the sun lit up the valleys momentarily. A fresh cool wind, heavy with moisture, blew toward them, invigorating the air and ruffling the dust laden palm fronds. The gaily coloured flags hung from the temple walls snapped and fluttered, their hues muted as the bank of cloud moved over the sun. The doves and pigeons that roosted amongst the palace roofs fell silent, edging together and looking at the sky askance.

  "Set's breath," Smenkhkare murmured.

  "Rain! Is it going to rain again? You remember last time, down by the river?"

  "I remember, little sister, but this will be far more. See those...those gray veils that connect the cloud to the land? That is rain, heavy rain."

  "But it will not hurt us will it? Even heavy rain can only be a bit of water falling from the sky."

  "It will not hurt us, but it can do damage. There was a storm there last night and now another one. Already the tombs of the kings in the Great Place are flooding."

  "But it is so dry there. Surely the water will just soak into the soil?"

  "Not if the rain is heavy enough. Dry stream beds become raging torrents within minutes, sweeping away rock and dirt and anything that gets in its way. Remember that, sister. If you ever should find yourself in a dry valley and it starts raining, get out. Get to high ground." He squeezed Scarab's shoulder hard, making her wince. Abruptly, he dropped his hand and turned back toward the room. "I am going over to the Great Place today to inspect the damage. Do you want to come?"

  Scarab nodded. "What can you do if it is flooded?"

  Smenkhkare smiled. "You've never seen the workmen's village over there have you? The place where the craftsmen live, on the threshold of the valley of the dead kings? You'll see; there is a lot I can do."

  Smenkhkare and Scarab boarded the royal barge not long after the noon meal, being joined by the Royal Scribe Ahmose, whose duties included the administration and oversight of the Great Place, and one of his assistants, a young scribe named Paser.

  The barge-master ordered the lines cast off and the vessel moved ponderously out into the current, the oarsmen straining to overcome the movement of the oily waters. The storm clouds had vanished and the sun shone forth brilliantly once more, but the wind had died with the rain and the only disturbance on the face of the river was a low cresting wave from the prow of the boat, the chunking of oars dipped in unison. Crabbing sideways across the flow, the barge pulled into the dock on the western bank.

  Priests of the mortuary temples met the royal party, the king's chariot standing ready, along with several other less richly ornamented ones. Smenkhkare helped his sister up and then climbed aboard, shaking the reins and setting the pair of white horses off at a trot through the rich farmlands. Quickly, the priests and scribes followed suit until a long pall of dust hung over the road that arrowed toward the fractured cliffs. Peasants worked in the fields, backs bent and heads down, scarcely looking up as the god on earth drove by.

  "I don't see any sign of the rain," Scarab said. "I expected the ground to be wet." She flapped a hand ineffectually at the billowing dust.

  The cliffs parted as they rode closer, widening and stretching back, deep into the desert. Immediately ahead, Scarab could see, through groves of palm and acacia, tamarind and willow, the brick walls of the new palace, long abandoned and the massive stone constructions of the mortuary temples. Their own father's, Nebmaetre Amenhotep, dwarfed the others, its gaily-painted walls and limply-hanging flags and banners silent testimony to one of the greatest kings Kemet had seen. They passed the long walls of their father's temple on one side, and the small one dedicated to that other Amenhotep, the son of Hapu, on the other.

  Twisting around, Scarab saw the following chariot, bearing the Royal Scribe, slow and the men inside salute the small temple. She peered around her brother to stare to the north first, then the south, but all she could see was the rich farmland merging into a hazy green stain, glints and flashes of light reflecting off innumerable canals and channels that fed water from the river to the fields. She knew that somewhere to the south lay the great palace of her father Amenhotep and the great lake that he had carved out of the farmlands to please her mother Tiye. It had been many years since she had seen it and she felt a touch of wistfulness, wishing she could see it again. She looked ahead once more and saw that they were about to leave a land brimming with life for a dry and dusty land. The sun shone suddenly hotter and she felt the life and moisture sucked right out of her.

  The road turned left, then right into one of the smaller valleys, the crumbling rock, limestone and shale, mounting up on either side. The roar and grind of the chariot wheels, the pounding drive of horses' hooves beat back at them from the walls of the valley and the dust, no longer borne away by the faintest of breezes in the open country, enveloped them in an acrid cloud. The road passed a village, walled and crowded, and started climbing up toward what Scarab could now see was a ridge sweeping from south to north across the real entrance to the valley.

  Smenkhkare leaned closer to Scarab and spoke loudly, pitching his voice over the clatter and roar. "The tombmakers' village. This is where all the men who work on the tombs, masons, sculptors, artists, live. Their wives and families too."

  "It looks dreadful. So dry and...and there are no plants, no living things."

  Smenkhkare grinned, the dust lying ashen on his coppery skin, his teeth white through the dirt. "There are plenty of living things here, s
ister. Scorpions, snakes and sometimes other things. You'll probably see hawks and if we are here when night falls you'll see bats and hear crickets singing. The Great Place is a place of both life and death." He pointed into the hills and cliffs on their right. "You know what's up there? The tombs of the nobles. They seek to be close to their king in death as in life."

  Scarab peered up through the dust clouds. "I don't see anything."

  "Nor should you. The entrances to the tombs must remain hidden else thieves would rob the tombs of their gold, consigning the nobles who lie within to an afterlife of poverty."

  Scarab sneezed from the dust and rubbed the tip of her nose with the back of her hand. "Why is it so dusty if it has just rained?"

  "The land is dry and soaks up the water. Only if the rain is heavy enough will it flood for an hour or two before the ground and the sun soak it up."

  The road veered east of north but still climbed up a gentle incline. Ahead lay a camp, an arrangement of brown linen and hide tents and lean-tos, interspersed with crumbling mud brick walls. A few men stood around, but when they saw the royal party, dropped to their knees, bending forward until their heads were in the dust. The small procession thundered past, up the road which led them along a flat ridge for a while before descending in a steep curve to join another road from the north. The horses' hooves slipped in the loose stones and Smenkhkare kept his charges under firm control as they made their descent. Scarab clung to the railing at the front of the chariot, bracing herself against the side.

  "Normally we would come up the main road there." Smenkhkare pointed to the north. "But this way is faster and more exciting."

  Scarab looked up at her brother through the enveloping dust. "What is wrong? It is not like you to be so...so...not like a king."

  A grimace quirked the corner of Smenkhkare's mouth. "You remember when we used to sneak out and wander around Waset without a care in the world?" He stared straight ahead and did not see his sister's smile and quick nod. "I miss those times and sometimes wish I had not become king."