Return to Thebes

by Allen Drury

  “It must be simply age,” I say impatiently. “I cannot smell anything. Here, give it to me!”

  And obediently, of course, he does, for anyone who speaks strongly to Smenkhkara can usually carry the day.

  I take the scarab in my hands, rub it between them. The same powdery stain comes off upon me. I lift my hands to my nose, take a deep breath. There is indeed, though I will not give him the satisfaction of saying so, a faint peculiar odor. Seeing me give no sign, he follows my example and sniffs his hands deeply. Behind his back Peneptah continues to smile and nod encouragement. I must see that he returns when Smenkhkara goes to my father later in the day.

  “It is nothing but dust,” I say scornfully.

  “I suppose you are right,” he agrees less doubtfully. “It must be very old. I do not think she would send a proof of her love to me that was just new-made. It can only be very—very—”

  And quite amazingly he stops in mid-sentence, gives a deep gasp for breath, clutches his throat, utters a strangled and incoherent cry and falls writhing at my feet.

  Instinctively I start to lean down to him, when suddenly he goes limp. I start to scream, but am dimly aware that Peneptah has leaped forward and put a hand over my mouth. Suddenly I, too, cannot breathe. He removes his hand, I struggle, I start to fall. Gently he lowers me to the floor beside Smenkhkara. Again I try to scream, I cannot, there is no air, I cannot breathe—I cannot breathe—my body is twisting, turning—I cannot breathe!

  Dimly through my terrible thrashings I see that Peneptah has stepped forward, carefully scooped up the scarab in a heavy cloth drawn from the folds of his garment, and stepped back.

  He begins to fade from my glazing eyes. He is in the doorway, looking thoughtfully and patiently down upon us. He is still smiling.

  ***

  Tutankhaten

  Criers are shouting something in the city. There is a frightened silence out there everywhere. When I look out of the windows I see hardly any moving in the streets but there is much running and whispering in the North Palace. My cousin Nefertiti is crying hysterically as though she has seen terrible things. They say my brother Smenkhkara and my cousin Merytaten are dead, struck down suddenly by some unknown disease. Now I come next to my brother Akhenaten in line for the throne. I do not want to be Pharaoh. It means terrible things. I am frightened. I do not want to be Pharaoh.…

  ***

  Akhenaten

  life, health, prosperity!)

  Ah! They have killed my heart. Help me, Father Aten, help me or I shall die! Why can I not die? I want to die! Help me die, Father Aten, for my heart is dead, they have killed my heart! He wanted to do only good—I wanted to do only good—they have killed him, Father Aten, they have killed my heart. I shall go mad. I shall go mad! Help me, Father Aten! Help me!

  ***

  Book II

  Death of a God

  1361 B.C.

  ***

  Horemheb

  He never stirs from the Great House now: neither my father nor I see him once in a month, probably. Yet the governing of Kemet somehow goes on because it has to go on. It goes on because we make it go on … and because there is no one else to do it.

  When Smenkhkara died (as he had to die, and I feel no regret for that: he was the willing fool of his brother, and deserved it), the heart seemed to die as well in Akhenaten. This of course was what we intended. For seventy days he did nothing but hover, weeping, over the embalmment and burial; I think even the precious Aten was forgotten during that time. He acted as one paralyzed, lost in grief, uncaring what went on anywhere around him, saving only that the tomb, the mummy and the coffin—those affronts to the gods and common decency!—must be exactly as he wanted them.

  Therefore, of course, neither my father Aye nor myself was stripped of any honors or powers. We simply went right ahead, aided by my younger half brother Nakht-Min, whom we persuaded Akhenaten to appoint Vizier, doing what had to be done for the Two Lands, exercising our authority unchanged, giving our commands as though he had never removed us from office. Besides ourselves there were only three other witnesses to that. One died the next morning, and the loyalty and support of the Great Wife and Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, have never wavered. No one will ever know that Nefer-Kheperu-Ra cried “Go!” to us in that frenzied, frantic, childish way, and banished us forever from power. And he is too disheartened and broken now ever to try it again.

  This we have proved by putting it to the test. The first step, of course, was to order immediately that the coronation durbar be depicted in the tombs of Huya and Meryra exactly as the Great Wife and Nefertiti wished. Now in both tombs the scene is as it should be for all time: serene on their thrones, Akhenaten and Nefertiti, surrounded by their daughters, receive the Parade of Tribute from our dutiful allies and vassals. Around them are happy games and celebrations of his assumption of power.

  It does not matter that this is not the truth.

  Give it a few years and it will be.

  When he made no objection to this, being still too bemused by grief to countermand us—we were very careful, mind you, to go to him and announce what we had done; he merely gave a long shuddering sigh and stared at us from those red-rimmed, unseeing eyes until we shivered, in something approaching fright, and went away—we felt that we had destroyed his will as we had intended, and that he would never recover sufficient strength to defy us. We knew that we could begin to proceed—still very cautiously and slowly, for he is still Pharaoh, of course, and there still might be some last flare of rage and defiance, though we think it very unlikely—to prepare for the end of his rule, the enthronement of Tut and the return of Amon.

  “The end of his rule”: this we have yet to accomplish, and the means are not yet fully clear. We have broken his will and with it we have apparently broken his body, for we understand from Hatsuret, who still remains on regular duty in the Palace, that he takes little food or water, prays constantly to the Aten and to his dead brother, grows steadily thinner and weaker, and seems, in fact, to be fading away physically as well as mentally. He lives almost in a daze, Hatsuret says (fingering with satisfaction the beautiful carnelian and lapis scarab, long since cleansed of its impurities, which he hangs about his neck on a gold chain and loves to fondle as he talks), and his end cannot be too long delayed. But how long is “too long,” and how much longer can we afford to let Kemet suffer the indignities that everywhere beset her?

  My father and I, aided by clever Tutu the Foreign Minister, now handle Pharaoh’s correspondence with our allies and vassals—and a sorry correspondence it is. They used to beg for gold: now they beg for salvation. The Hittites, pushed back and held firmly in place by Tuthmose III and Amonhotep II (life, health, prosperity to them both, great builders and savers of the Two Lands!), are on the move again, raiding down under the leadership of their new King, Supp-i-lu-li-u-mas, into Mittani, Syria, Byblos and beyond. With them conspires Aziru of Amurru, playing a double game which is obvious to Aye and myself, though even now I do not quite dare send out armies on my own command: I am still paralyzed by the simple fact of Pharaoh. It is Pharaoh they want. They want the Living Horus at the head of his troops to save them, and they are right: nothing else can do it now. Things have reached such a pass of demoralization in our northern territories that only his actual presence could produce the necessary magic: and he is in no condition at all to go.

  We do not feel guilty about this, nor do we take responsibility for it, since even when he had the strength he had no inclination. The Empire has been crumbling for a decade and he has done nothing about it even when he could. He would never have changed even had we left him in health. He has always been hopeless in this regard, as in so many others. He has had himself depicted in the friezes and statues smiting the enemies of Kemet like any other Pharaoh, but in his heart he has not had the will or the energy to lift a finger. It is only one in the long catalogue of his sins.

  So the letters come in. They still address him as “the King, my Lord
, my Sun, my God.” They still say, “I am thy servant, the dust of thy feet.…” They still tell him, “I look to the King my lord, and there is light.… I move not away from the King’s feet.… On my neck rests the yoke of my lord the King.…” They prate, “At the feet of the King my Lord seven times and again seven times I prostrate myself upon my back and upon my breast.” And they beg for help, poor dogs:

  “Oh my Lord, if the trouble of this land lies upon the heart of my Lord, let my Lord send troops, and let him come.…

  “Lord of the Two Lands, King of Kings, God-King on earth: lead your army to us in your own divine person, at the head of your vast army, with glittering chariots of gold, with warriors heavy with weapons as far as eye can see!”

  And from Simyra and Tunip two months ago:

  “Bring help, before it is too late!”

  And from Tunip two weeks ago:

  “Now we belong no more to our Lord the King of Kemet … when Aziru enters Simyra, Aziru will do with us as he pleases, in the territory of our Lord, the King.…”

  And from Tunip yesterday:

  “And now Tunip, thy city, weeps, and her tears are flowing, and there is no help for us.”

  And here we sit paralyzed, while all falls!

  We do not show him these letters and we do not answer them. What would be the use? He would do nothing anyway. All falls, all falls! The Two Lands dwindle and the Hittites advance. Would I were Pharaoh now, to rid us of this shame before it is too late to rebuild the Empire and make Kemet great again!

  It is late, it is late!

  All falls.…

  My father counsels patience. He shrinks, I think, from further death, as does the Great Wife. From time to time Nefertiti still tries, in vain, to see her husband. Fortunately he always refuses, so we do not have to interpose force to keep her from him. If she were to see him she might be able to rally him for one last attempt to reassert his power. She is the only one who could. But he does not know this: he deliberately keeps her away. Poor Akhenaten, who has always cut himself off from everyone and everything that could help him! I might weep for him, in some other world—indeed, I have wept for him, in days past. But he receives no tears from me any more. It is all too late for that.

  Almost a year has passed since the death of Ankh-Kheperu-Ra. Still he grieves, shut away in the Great House. When my father and I visit, the windows are shuttered, incense burns, priests of the Aten, by his order, still chant dirges in the corridors: all is dark and gloomy. He has stopped wearing his regalia to greet us. Now he wears only a shabby old linen shift like a woman’s, not even the pleated kilt of Pharaoh. He rarely bothers with a wig, his head looks dirty and scrofulous. His misshapen body is thinner, more elongated, more grotesque, if possible. I do not think he lets them bathe him very often. He is turning a little more each day into an old man, though he is barely thirty-two. Only the terrible eyes, haunted, unhappy, filled with pain, stare out at us, saying: Leave me alone. He curls upon his throne like an animal, wounded, resentful, dreadfully bereft. We never dare stay long. Conscience does not permit it: and it is all we can do to stand the sight and smell of him, even for a few moments.…

  I wonder if we did the right thing.

  My concern now is how best and quickest to finish the business: because if the gods did not mean for us to begin it, they should not have let us. And if they will not soon finish it for us, then we must do it ourselves.

  Ramesses and Hatsuret have their orders to report to me instantly anything that will serve as excuse. Then I shall immediately confront the Great Wife and my father, and whether I receive their approval or not, it will be done.

  I am determined that it shall not continue like this.

  ***

  Ramesses

  I hear some gossip among the soldiers that Nefertiti has selected twelve from among her small contingent of household troops and had them assigned to her as personal bodyguards. Why does she need them, I wonder? No one is attacking her.

  ***

  Hatsuret

  Anser-Wossett has sought an audience with Pharaoh. To everyone’s amazement, he has agreed to receive her. They have already been closeted alone for almost an hour. Soldiers are posted at the door. They are Nefertiti’s and will tell me nothing. I loiter close as long as I dare, but say nothing. They begin to give me strange looks. I drop back into the crowd. Why would Anser-Wossett seek audience? Why would he receive her? When she departs I am waiting near the steps. Our eyes meet, I nod toward the market-place. She gives the slightest of nods in return. I think she will meet me. Something brews. I must find out what it is. The Heretic must not be allowed to escape the vengeance of Amon.

  ***

  Anser-Wossett

  I approach the South Palace, trembling, on the orders of the Queen. I send in my name with the humble request that he grant me audience. Hatsuret lurks about as I wait but I never glance in his direction. I fully expect to be ordered sternly away, if not worse. When the messenger returns with word that the Good God will see me, I am amazed. I glance then at Hatsuret. He is as amazed as I, everyone is amazed. But I keep my face composed and impassive as the Queen does, and walk past them all down the long corridors to his room. Incense is burning, priests of the Aten chant soft dirges for Smenkhkara. I am announced, the doors are flung open. I sink to my knees without looking up, bend low to touch my forehead to the floor. Behind me the doors close. I look up and cannot suppress an involuntary start of dismay: he looks so awful. Of course he sees it, he has always seen everything. A bitter and sarcastic smile touches his face.

  “The Lady Anser-Wossett may rise,” he says, “before she falls over from astonishment at my sad appearance.”

  “No, Your Majesty,” I stammer, “no—no—I only—”

  “I know,” he says in a more kindly tone, something of the graciousness he always used to show me in the old days returning. “Here, take this seat beside me, and we will talk.”

  “But, Your Majesty,” I stammer again, overcome with awe and hesitation, “the seat beside you is—is—”

  “It is an empty throne,” he says bleakly. “I know. Please be seated and tell me why you come.”

  Still hesitantly, for what he invites me to do is really sacrilege, I slowly mount the steps to the dais and seat myself, trembling inwardly with fright at the enormity of my presumption even though he has invited it.

  “Don’t sit on the edge,” he commands with a trace of amusement. “Sit back and be comfortable.… Now”—when I have obeyed, very gingerly—“how do you find me?”

  He is dressed in a simple but clean linen shift; he is not wearing the pleated kilt of Pharaoh. He has put on a wig, which is clean. He looks much thinner and older than when I saw him last, really quite emaciated. There are circles under those eyes that always seem to penetrate to the very limit of one’s innermost pretensions. I do not think he has bathed this day, or perhaps for several: a rank odor afflicts my nostrils. But I tell myself firmly that he is the Good God, the Living Horus, King and Pharaoh of the Two Lands, and I must do nothing that will destroy this intimacy which is greater than the Chief Wife and I had ever dared hope. So I give no sign—at least I think I give no sign. But again, with the heightened sensitivity to others’ reactions to his person that he has had ever since his illness so many years ago, he knows.

  “Yes,” he says with a sad smile, “I am afraid I am not as cleanly as I used to be, and I am sorry if it offends you. But there is nothing now”—and again his face takes on that terrible bleak look—“there is nothing for which to keep myself in order … so more and more I find that I am letting myself become slovenly. Which I know I ought not to do, but”—he utters a heavy sigh—“somehow, I do not seem to care.… Here”—he reaches for a bottle of scented water that stands on a small table beside his throne—“let us scatter this about and see if it will make our talk more pleasant.… If you had given me advance warning you were coming,” he goes on when he has finished and I am breathing more easily, “I shou
ld have made myself completely presentable for you. But then you might have been afraid to talk honestly to the god.

  Now you can talk to one who, as you see, is but an unclean man, tired and ill and not, I think, too long fated to stay on this earth.”

  “Oh no, Your Majesty!” I protest. “Many, many years await you. Many good things still lie ahead, once this—this present time has passed.”

  “Once this present horror has passed?” he echoes with a smile so infinitely sad that it seems to turn my heart inside out for him. “Oh no, Anser-Wossett: it is not going to pass. It is going to stay with me until I die. Which, as I say, will not be long, I think. And do you know something?” He swings himself to face me fully, bracing himself with an arm against the arm of his throne. “I do not care. I simply do not care. I pray only to Father Aten that he may take me quickly, so that I may leave this ungrateful people who do not understand or appreciate me and go to rejoin the one who does.”

  “Your Majesty,” I venture then, a terrible fear and trembling returning to my heart, for I do not know what his reaction will be: but the Queen has told me that if I am brave he will respect it and I will receive no harm. “Your Majesty, there is still one who understands and appreciates you, here on this earth. Why can you not, even now, return to her who still loves you?”

  For several moments he is silent, sitting frozen as he is. I glanced away when I spoke, not daring to meet his eyes, and so I, too, sit frozen. I expect one of the sudden rages with which Her Majesty and I were once so familiar: such a rage as killed his uncle Aanen, for instance, or Amon’s old High Priest Maya. May it not now kill Anser-Wossett? But when he finally speaks it is not in rage but a genuine puzzlement.

  “Why did she send you to me?” he asks. “We have had no reason to speak to one another for three years. There is no reason now. She is dead to me—dead! Does she not understand that?”