The Amarnan Kings, Book 2: Scarab - Smenkhkare

by Overton, Max

  Khaemnum nodded. "I plan to leave after the dawn hymn tomorrow. I had better go and tell the king to prepare for the journey."

  "You will tell him nothing. Spin him a tale if you must but do not even hint that he will survive this. Mentopher will read it in his face and it will all be for nothing."

  "How is it that a well-born lady like you knows these things? The ways of the desert, the pillar of rock, a man you have never met?"

  Meryetaten smiled. "Do not imagine that only Ay has spies. Never underestimate me, Khaemnum."

  Khaemnum, with Mentopher and a squad of twenty soldiers, intercepted Akhenaten as he left the great Temple of Aten the next morning, just after the dawn hymn to the Sun. The soldiers slipped between the king and the few court officials that still bothered to accompany Akhenaten, and gently ushered him to one side, dissuading anyone else who tried to stay close.

  "What is the meaning of this, Khaemnum?" Akhenaten asked querulously, peering about him with reddened eyes. "I don't have time for any other business today. My eyes hurt so much I can hardly see. I want to go and lie down."

  "No, you are coming with us," Mentopher growled.

  Akhenaten moved closer to the large man and looked up at him, moving his head from side to side in an effort to see him clearly. "Who are you? Why do you speak so disrespectfully? Don't you know I'm the king?"

  Khaemnum pushed Mentopher aside. "My apologies, your majesty. He is Mentopher, a servant of your Tjaty, Ay. He meant no disrespect, just that we are here as you ordered, ready to escort you to the dedication of the new Aten temple in the desert."

  "A new temple? I ordered...I do not..." Akhenaten's voice trailed off, not remembering, but also not wanting to reveal his forgetfulness. "Er, yes, that is right, but we will leave later. I am hungry."

  "Your majesty, you gave strict orders. Food and drink have been prepared and we must leave immediately if we are to get there before nightfall."

  Akhenaten allowed himself to be persuaded, though frowning at his own apparent forgetfulness. The squad of soldiers formed up around their king and, with Khaemnum and Mentopher at their head, marched through the city to the northern stela marking the official boundary. Waiting in the sparse shade of the rock wall were another small group of soldiers with a train of heavily burdened donkeys. The king was shown to one of them.

  "I am not going to ride a donkey," Akhenaten stated. "Where is my sedan chair or my golden throne with my Nubian slaves? Even a chariot will do."

  "The path is too steep and rocky for a sedan chair or a chariot, your majesty. You must ride the donkey."

  The king acquiesced reluctantly and, with help from one of the soldiers, mounted the sturdy beast. Plunging into the shadowed gully that split the cliffs of the north and eastern walls of the city plain, the troop of men started working their way up the dry stream bed. If the way seemed neither as steep nor rocky as he had been led to expect, Akhenaten gave no sign, clinging on hard to the leather girth strap, his eyes fixed on the path just ahead of his animal.

  At the top of the cliffs, the path opened out onto the dun-coloured desert that stretched away in great rolling sweeps of sand and rock to the north and east. The path itself curved westward toward the unseen river then north, following the top of the cliffs that closely bordered the valley at this point. From time to time a path would diverge from the main one, usually angling down the rocky slopes to a smudge of blue-green water and vegetation in the distance, less often heading east into the dry and inhospitable interior. The road was almost deserted, the only other travelers being merchants who, on sighting the strange figure of the king with his elongate face and limbs, his rounded belly and his ornate gold pectoral, fell to the ground and prostrated themselves. Akhenaten said nothing, perhaps because his vision obscured the details, but once or twice he moved his hand in the form of a blessing.

  The troop traveled as fast as the donkeys would allow, the soldiers trotting alongside the animals and keeping them moving with judicious prods with spear handles, or if a beast became particularly recalcitrant, pricking it into renewed vigor with a spear point. They halted briefly at noon for a hurried meal, the blazing sun beating down on them from above, its fierce rays prickling their skin as if thousands of little hands reached down from the Aten in his glory to caress his subjects below. Akhenaten lifted up his voice in praise, the soldiers standing around patiently while the king sang.

  "Why do we allow this folly?" Mentopher growled. "Bind him and be done with it. We could travel much faster."

  "And if we were seen by some passing trader or farmer?" Khaemnum queried. "How would it look if we had the king captive? We have to be able to say we traveled at the king's command and when we left him, it was because he ordered us to do so."

  Toward dusk they moved off the road and camped in the lea of a rocky outcrop. The king had fallen silent as the day progressed and now ate his frugal evening meal without comment or fuss. He curled up by the fire in a thick woolen blanket to keep out the chill night air, lying on his back and staring up at the blaze of Nut's body with the pale star track of Atum's semen splashed across the velvety blackness.

  "I can scarcely make out even the brightest stars," he murmured. "What sort of a king does a blind man make?"

  Khaemnum, lying closest to the king, heard him but could not think of anything to say until long past the moment. When he did, he thought the words, not daring to say them out loud. Then give up being a king and worship your god in peace .

  The next day at dawn, Akhenaten was in good humor once more and led the group in praise of the rising sun. Afterward he smiled as he sat on the back of his donkey as they headed away from the road and into the face of the morning sun. Hours passed and the small party of soldiers moved deeper into the yellow-brown desert, over areas of rock, slipping over loose pebbles and trudging through hot calf-deep sand. As the sun passed the zenith and slipped toward the western horizon, Khaemnum left the troop to rest in the relative cool of a shaded gully and climbed a low hill to stare to the northeast. He returned quickly and ordered the men to set up camp, drawing Mentopher to one side.

  "We are almost there. I could see King's Phallus from the top of the hill."

  "Then why do we not push on and reach it tonight? Then we can leave him to his fate."

  "Because I have a plan." He would say no more but returned to the tiny camp fire of dried donkey dung, joining the king on the upwind side.

  "When do we get there?" Akhenaten asked.

  "Tomorrow. Not long after dawn."

  The king sat and stared at the smoky fire until night fell. He accepted food and water without comment, nibbling on it and sipping the water, at length laying the remnants down on the sand beside him.

  "You have been kind to me, Commander Khaemnum. I fear though that the opportunity to repay your kindness is past." Khaemnum said nothing, just watched the dim profile of the king against the starlit heavens. "I am almost blind now," the king went on. "I can only see shapes, light and dark. As a blessing I can still see the Aten. But a blind king cannot rule. It would be better if I walked out into the desert and let my father the Aten take me, would it not?"

  "My lord..." Khaemnum could not think what to say, so closed his mouth.

  "That is what you mean for me to do tomorrow." Khaemnum found his cheeks wet and hurriedly brushed them away with the back of one hand, grateful the dark hid his shame. Akhenaten sat a few minutes longer, before lying down and pulling the wool blanket over him.

  The king was up the next morning in the pre-dawn darkness. He led the soldiers in the hymn to the sun once more then turned to Khaemnum and Mentopher. "Let us do this thing," he said, turning and walking out into the full sun.

  Mentopher ran after him and roughly grabbed his arm, pulling him round and shoving him up the slope of the hill. Khaemnum joined them after ordering the soldiers to stay behind, and all three men crested the hill and sighted the pillar of rock together.

  "Set's buttocks," Mentopher growled. "Why did
we not get closer last night? It will take us all day to get there." He sat down on a rock and wiped his face with his hands.

  "Mid-morning," Khaemnum corrected. "Provided we leave now." He smiled at Akhenaten and started toward the distant pillar. The king joined him and so, a curse or two later, did Mentopher.

  Three hot hours later, the three men staggered into the tiny patch of shade cast by the rocky pillar. Nothing moved in the heat except the rippling air, yet none of them sweated, the moisture being sucked off them before they even noticed it. Mentopher unplugged the water skin at his side and took a long drink, his throat working convulsively. Khaemnum followed, desperately wanting to drink his fill but knowing he must exercise restraint for the trip back. Akhenaten eyed the water skin, his tongue touching his lips, but he did not beg.

  Mentopher saw the look and grinned. "Thirsty, heretic? Here." He tossed a small skin to the king, watching with eager eyes as the king unstoppered the flask with shaking fingers.

  The king upended the skin and swallowed, grimacing and lowering it so precipitously that a few ruby drops spilt onto the sand, vanishing without trace in seconds. "Wine? You could not spare water?" he asked calmly.

  "You be careful with that, heretic. In this heat wine will make you even thirstier." Mentopher put back his head and roared with laughter. "Never mind, I brought you something to eat too." He threw a small bundle at the king's feet. "Salted mutton."

  "You are cruel, Mentopher," Khaemnum said. "There is no need to act like a barbarian." He handed the king the water skin. "One swallow, mind."

  Akhenaten took a long pull at the skin and handed it back to the military commander. "I believe I will sit over here in the shade and contemplate the beauty of this land. You had better return, Commander, you will want to be out of the sun before the day gets hot."

  Khaemnum nodded and looked to where Mentopher was already retracing his steps. "Wait here, my lord," he said quietly. "Do not despair. Your god will not forget you."

  Akhenaten watched the two men walk away, the vagueness of their forms quickly swallowed up by the shifting air. He moved with the shadow as it slowly circled the pillar above him, doing no more than wetting his lips with the wine, resisting the temptation to drink. He ignored the salted meat entirely despite his growing hunger. As he sat, he thought about Kemet and the Aten, how his god both gave life and took it. He smiled at the thought that he would soon be with his god, beyond pain, beyond thirst. Staring into the setting sun the shadows closed around him, narrowing his vision until all he could see was a tunnel lit by his god at the end of it. Akhenaten stood and stretched his arms out, lifting his voice up in praise of the Living Aten one last time. All that issued from his throat was a hoarse croak and the failure made him reel.

  As he fell into unconsciousness, he thought he heard a woman cry out, "Father!"

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  Chapter Thirty-Six

  For generations the walls of Waset had been an unnecessary luxury. They last served their purpose when the Hyksos invaders from the north penetrated into the inner part of the Two Kingdoms. Since then, the massive brickworks of the defensive wall had been allowed to fall into a sad state of disrepair. When the messenger had arrived from the south, his tiny craft flying before current and wind like a great bird, bringing news of another invader, Ay had marshaled the men of Amun's city and set them to work.

  The city on the western bank lay defenceless. Built over years in a time of peace, palaces and temples and residential areas lay sprawled amid farmland and orchards. Leaving only a small crew of servants behind to maintain the palace against their return, Ay removed the court to the old palace, bringing with him the guards and masons from the Great Place. It irked him to leave the tombs unguarded but with the favour of the gods the usurper Smenkhkare would be defeated inside a month.

  Ay stood on the walls of the old city and stared south along the river, General Nakhtmin beside him. General Psenamy had proved himself to be less than useful and Ay had promoted Nakhtmin, the son of Djetmaktef, over him. Around the two men, teams of men worked feverishly to shore up the defences, bringing freshly quarried stone from across the river and mud bricks newly sun-baked by the river where women and children had been conscripted to do the menial work.

  "How long have we got?" Ay asked, shading his face with his hands.

  Nakhtmin shrugged and leaned back against the rough parapet. "Not long. My spies tell me the rebel is moving north, capturing the cities as he advances. Abu and Edfu fell after fighting, Nekhen capitulated without a struggle, and he nears Esna. If they hold him there, he may be as long as ten days, if not, then a few days."

  "Can we defeat him?"

  "That is in the hands of the gods. I know if I had been Smenkhkare..."

  "Don't use that name," Ay hissed. "He is a rebel, nothing more." He looked around to see if any of the workmen had overheard him. One of the men carrying bricks looked vaguely familiar and Ay frowned, trying to remember.

  "Tjaty?" Nakhtmin touched Ay's arm.

  Ay tore his attention away from the half-remembered face. "What?"

  "I was saying if I was the rebel I would not have stopped to invest the other cities, knowing Horemheb was behind me. Abu maybe, he needed boats, but not the others. It is in our interests that he delays."

  "Even if he strengthens his army?"

  "Even then. What can he add? A few hundred men of doubtful loyalty. Time is what he does not have."

  "So we can defeat him when he arrives?"

  "We do not need to. We can sit inside our walls and wait for Horemheb's army to catch up."

  "In other words, we cannot."

  Nakhtmin smiled. "Tjaty, you must learn to think in a less direct fashion. Not every battle is won by dashing out and confronting the enemy head-on. We have a city we can defend against a larger army than Smen...the rebel has. Wait for Horemheb. That is my counsel."

  Ay and General Nakhtmin moved away to stroll along the top of the wall, examining the reconstruction efforts and to view the mass of humans and animals pouring into the city from the surrounding countryside. No matter who fought, the common man ended up being killed, his property destroyed and his wife raped. Though Kemet had been at peace internally for generations, memories lingered and men moved with alacrity to avoid internecine conflict.

  As the officials departed, the man carrying the bricks straightened and eased his back, watching the Tjaty with hate filled eyes. "I will be back," he muttered to the man beside him.

  "Bring us back a beer, Mahuhy," the other man called.

  Mahuhy clambered down the rickety ladder to street level and walked rapidly through the milling crowd of workers until he found himself in the darker, more deserted streets of the dock area. For the next hour or two he slowly worked his way through the taverns and brothels, staying a few minutes, usually just long enough for a few sips of water or beer, a muttered conversation or joke with one of the working girls, before moving on. Behind him, he left a flurry of activity as men, and a few women, hurried off intent on errands of their own.

  Sunset saw him moving cautiously through the deeply shadowed streets where the river lapped the pilings of the jetties and piers. This was one area the city walls did not encompass, and to a water-borne army, would be a logical entry point. Earlier, Mahuhy had passed through squads of masons and architects intent on tearing down whole areas of slums and constructing a low wall to protect the exposed underbelly of the city. Naturally, many people objected to the destruction of their homes and the Medjay were kept busy maintaining the peace, or at least Ay's version of it.

  Mahuhy, once a Councilor of the king, but now no more than a businessman of Waset, had not been able to openly return to his trade of brothel keeper since fleeing the clutches of Ay's soldiers. Disdaining to leave Waset, he had gone underground, fostering friendships with criminals and beggars, drawing on old favours and garnering new ones. Within a year of the coup that saw Tutankhaten come to the throne, Mahuhy wa
s in a powerful position. He still ran his string of brothels though now through front-women, canny ex-prostitutes who had a head for figures and a sharp nose for profits. Add to that half the taverns in the poorer quarters and judicious contracts placed through venial priests to supply meat and grain from the temple farms to the households of the nobility, and Mahuhy could be reckoned among the richest and most powerful men in Waset. And this despite the fact that only a handful of men knew who he really was. Anonymity was a blessing though, if Ay found him he would die unpleasantly.

  The great warehouse sat deserted and dark, down a street that no-one frequented after sunset. Mahuhy stepped up and rapped confidently on a small door in the side of the building, paused and knocked again. The door opened and he stepped through to find a bronze blade at his throat. A flare of light illuminated a group of men as the cover was removed from an oil lamp and Mahuhy grinned, pushing the hand that held the blade to one side.

  "Who did you think I was?" Mahuhy asked. "Ay's guards do not politely knock."

  The young man holding the dagger sheathed it and scowled. "How was I to know? It is better to be sure than dangling from a noose."

  "Good man, Heb. You are learning." Mahuhy scanned the circle of faces in the dim light of the lamp. "Are we all here?"

  "Kaha's not here, he got arrested."

  "What? Why, for Hapi's sake?"

  "Do not concern yourself, Mahuhy; it is nothing to do with our purpose. He got drunk and urinated in the porch of a priest. He will be out tomorrow."

  Mahuhy nodded. "Kaha is a drunken idiot. If it wasn't for the fact that he controls the guild of corn merchants, I'd have nothing to do with him."

  "Surely not," drawled a lean older man with a puckered scar down his left cheek. "He must spend a fortune in your brothels. I know my cut is substantial."

  "Indeed, Rait, if it were not for you and Hay here," Mahuhy gestured at a young man with a cast in one eye. "I would be considerably richer than I am."