by Allen Drury
They are hoisted up. Queen Tiye looks straight ahead, acknowledges in no way the presence of her eldest son. In Smenkhkara’s baldachin, Sitamon and the children are too shaken to speak.
In a clear, strong voice that carries forcefully through the deathly silence, the Great Wife cries:
“Bear up the body of the Good God and let the procession begin!”
Instantly in front of her baldachin, where her husband’s mummy inside its four great sarcophagi has rested on a wooden stand, relays of soldiers who will spell one another every two hundred paces, so great is the weight they must carry, leap forward to lift it high. The wooden stand is swept away. The great trumpets begin their somber mooing. The sistrums of Amon begin to rattle in the chilly air. Drums beat. And the procession commences.
We wind slowly through the narrow streets of Thebes, many of them fallen into disuse and neglect as the once proud capital has dreamed away the years far from the hustle and bustle of flourishing Akhet-Aten. All along the way there is heard the weeping and wailing that we expected. Combined with it comes an undercurrent of discreet and loving applause for the Great Wife as she passes. And with it also comes, furtive, fugitive, fleeting but ever present, its sources never quite perceived, its perpetrators never quite discovered—though obviously there are many, many of them—a steady escort for poor, misguided Naphuria.
The hiss keeps him company, all the way.
We stop at the temple of Amon at Luxor. Doddering Maya and fanatic, ambitious young Hat-sur-et make us formally welcome. We pause to do suitable worship, which Pharaoh and the Great Wife perform together, dismounting from the baldachin, placing offerings on the altar, chanting (her voice clear, impervious and steady, his emotion-choked croak barely audible) the words we know he hates, to Amon … and even there, distant on the wind, the gently ominous susurrus comes.
They remount, we move on along the avenue of sphinxes to the great temple of Karnak and the ceremony is repeated at Amon’s most ancient altar … and the soft, insistent sibilance comes.
They remount, we return to the Nile, we cross, we pass between the Colossi, we worship at the mortuary temple, we move on through the barren rocky ravines beneath the Peak of the West, take the turning pointed out for us by the white-robed priests of Amon standing rigidly at attention, come to the entrance of the Good God’s tomb, dismount and follow the enormous sarcophagi beneath the ground, down 533 steps to the final resting place … and still, even in the Valley of the Kings, seeming to emanate eerily even from the harsh bare rocks themselves, comes the secret, sinister, hostile sound.
In the burial chamber, finally, we hear it no more. The soldiers remove, with great sweat and grunting, the enormously heavy lids of the four interlocking sarcophagi and withdraw. Shrunken, shriveled, leathery but recognizable, the features of Amonhotep III (life, health prosperity!), still vaguely amiable even in death, stare up at us. There remain now only the Family, Maya and Hatsuret.
Maya, leaning shakily on a wooden staff, defers to Hatsuret, who intones the sacred words and hands to Naphuria the hooked iron instrument used for the Ceremony-of-The-Opening-of-The-Mouth. With a glance of pure hatred for the priests that none of us has ever seen upon his face before, Pharaoh accepts it and steps forward.
“In the name of the Aten—” he cries loudly, and as instinctively as ill-fated Aanen once did, Hatsuret blurts out, “Amon!” But this, fortunately for him, is not the time nor place for vengeance.
“In the name of the Aten,” Pharaoh repeats angrily, voice slurred and almost unintelligible with emotion, “in the name of the Aten, I call upon you, Father, O great Lord Neb-Ma’at-Ra Amonhotep—speak!”
And taking the iron bar, he forces it with hasty revulsion between the mummified teeth (while we all shrink back instinctively in both dread and awe of the ancient ritual), and pries the mouth open. It does not open easily—there is a horrible cracking sound as the jaw hinges give way and several broken teeth rattle down the parchment throat—but it is done, as the tradition of millennia says it has to be.
He flings the instrument away with a shudder of horror and disgust—utters the ritual chant:
“You live again, you live again forever, here you are young again once more forever!”
—and so begins for his father the long process of coming to life again in the eternal afterworld.
We return above the ground, the soldiers go back down to replace and permanently seal the sarcophagi. After we leave they will seal the entrance to the tomb and cover it over with earth. Then the priests will kill them, so that no one will ever know where the Good God lies resting, and he will be safe forever from the grave robbers of Qurna who have desecrated so many tombs.
We stand at the entrance to the tomb, blinking in the sharp, cold sunlight that has now replaced the earlier scudding gray clouds, and suddenly the rigid control of the Great Wife collapses at last and she begins to cry, a hopeless, helpless, sobbing wail in which all of us women soon join, moved as we are by the loss of this Good God and the terrible tensions of the day. But swiftly we learn that her grief goes deeper than that.
As we stand closely clustered about her, Akhenaten leaves Smenkhkara and shuffles toward us. Awkwardly he stretches out his thin arms to his mother and attempts to comfort what he believes to be her lament. But he misreads it, as he does so much else nowadays, poor Naphuria.
“Mother,” he says brokenly. “Mother, do not grieve for him. He rests well beneath the ground, he will be happy in the afterworld. Do not grieve too much for him.”
“I do not grieve for him!” she cries, and her voice, too, is choked and heavy with emotion, an anguish that is almost unbearable. “I grieve for you, my poor son! I grieve for you!”
Abruptly we all fall silent, staring with fright at Pharaoh’s face. As we do, we hear distantly on the wind, resumed, the sibilant, sinister sound. It can only come from priests of Amon hidden in the rocks, for no one else is here.
His face is transformed by an absolute bleakness—an utter irrevocable loss—a desolation beyond desolation—a rage beyond rage.
“Re-form the procession!” he shouts, his voice in tattered chaos but its import lucid enough in the cold glittering air. “Re-form the procession! We return to visit the God Amon in his temple at Karnak!”
There is no questioning, no hesitation. We are all too stunned, he is too obviously consumed by fury. We are mesmerized. Hastily we reform the procession.
“Trumpets!” he shouts, and there is a long, shuddering blast that echoes and re-echoes, echoes and re-echoes, echoes and re-echoes yet again off the jumble of harsh forsaken crags that he beneath the Peak of the West.
Slowly at first, then ever more quickly as his towering fury and impatience transmit themselves to our bearers, we begin to move back to the Nile.
We return to visit the god Amon, in his temple at Karnak.
And now, it is obvious, it is going to be someone else’s turn to pay.
***
Akhenaten
(life, health, prosperity!)
I stand before the ancient wooden doors of the temple of Amon at Karnak, and at my back the huge throng that has flocked to greet my completely unexpected and unprecedented return from the Valley of the Kings stands utterly astounded, utterly fearful, utterly still.
What, I can sense them thinking, is Horse Face up to now? What awful things will “the Criminal,” “the Heretic,” do this time? What dreadful wonders does the husband of his daughters, the lover of his brother, the hater of the gods, have in store for us today?
They did not expect wonders—but they have asked for wonders. And wonders such as they could never imagine are what they are going to get.
Because I have had enough.
I stand before this most ancient temple of Amon at Karnak and finally, irrevocably, permanently and forever, I have had enough.
It has not been sufficient for them to jeer and make fun of me every day of the past twelve years.
It has not been sufficie
nt for them to despise and reject you, Father Aten, who are perfect in all ways and who has made your son Akhenaten perfect in your image.
It has not been sufficient for them to steal my people from me with sly tricks and devious words and constant opposition to all the things that you, Father Aten, have directed me to do.
It has not been sufficient for them to slander and besmirch my attempts to beget sons for Kemet who could serve the Two Kingdoms and strengthen our House—as you, Father Aten, have directed me to do.
It has not been sufficient for them to defile and degrade my union with Smenkhkara—which you, Father Aten, told us was right and good in your eyes, and which you directed me to do because it would make me happy, and thus make me better able to serve you and my kingdom.
It has not been sufficient for them to scorn you in all your beneficence and glory, and equally to scorn your son Akhenaten, who has attempted always to live only in truth as you have directed him.
It has not been sufficient for Amon—it has not been sufficient for the Chief Wife—it has not been sufficient for the Family—it has not been sufficient for the people—to join in doing all these things.
Now they all must degrade and defile me yet further. Now on this day of my coming at last to total power, they must unite in a final hissing and scorning and dishonoring, so that I am made to feel totally unloved—shamed—hated—deserted—despised … and my mother is made to cry for me.…
I could not stand to see my mother cry for me.…
Thus have they done with their evil hatreds, their evil jealousies, their evil disrespect and irreverence for you, O Father Aten, and for your son Akhenaten, who lives in truth for you, as you direct him, in all things.
Always have I tried to be gentle and patient with them: always have I tried to be good. Always have I tried to act only for the greater glory of you, O Aten, and for the good of the Two Lands and of my House. Always have I tried to serve the people and save them from the dead weight of centuries, and to hurt no one save a few overweening priests—and even them, saving only my stupid uncle Aanen, I have never killed a one of them.
And thus have they all rewarded me. All, all…! because even my mother, though she cries for me, has become my enemy now.…
So be it, proud Amon and all you other hurtful gods!
So be it, ungrateful people!
So be it, jealous wife and unloving Family!
Pharaoh lies beneath the ground.…
Pharaoh stands before the temple of Amon.…
Farewell, Pharaoh beneath the ground!
Long live, Pharaoh who has lived long!
Now the world will move as you and I command, Father Aten.
Not one deserves my mercy—not one can say me nay.
Now it is I who will at last have things as I want them, forever and ever, for millions and millions of years.
This have you promised me, Father Aten, and in the sure knowledge of your love and support through all eternity, I now am ready to act.
At my back the Family, the troops, the priests, the people and all things on earth, in heaven and in the water are deathly still. Not a voice is raised in all the great throng that fills Karnak and crowds both banks of the river, utterly astounded, utterly terrified by my totally unexpected, totally unprecedented return from the necropolis.
Somewhere a dog starts to bark and is strangled in mid-yelp as if its master were afraid the sound might instantly bring down my vengeance.
And perhaps he is right, poor hissing fool. Because I could do it, if I would.
For the last time I look at the temple of Amon as it has existed for more than a thousand years, and then my voice rings out strong and clear. Amazingly, in the midst of my all-consuming rage, it fails me not, thanks to you, Father Aten. I hear it carrying distinctly to the farthest reaches of the crowd and even, I think, across the river, so greatly do you strengthen me in what I now must do.
“General Horemheb!” I cry. “Attend me!”
At first it is as though he does not understand. He looks at me almost stupidly and answers, “What? What?—”
“Attend me!” I cry clearly and strongly again, and evidently it finally penetrates, because, though he still looks baffled, he comes hurriedly forward to my side.
“Yes, Son of the Sun,” he says quickly. “Did you want me?”
“I called you!” I exclaim angrily, and then I adopt a quieter tone, for all must be dignity now as I do what you, Father Aten, tell me I at last must do.
“General Horemheb,” I say slowly, and now he seems to have come out of his fog, he watches me with an almost hypnotized intensity, “bring me a company of soldiers with battering rams. At once! At once!”
“Soldiers with—” he echoes, beginning to pretend again that he does not understand—as if that could deter me! I seize his arm, so sharply and fiercely that even Smenkhkara, standing beside me, shrinks back a little at my vehemence.
“Battering rams,” I repeat, trying hard to maintain my dignity as you advise, Father Aten, but finding it hard to do in the face of his deliberate incomprehension. “Battering rams.”
Now he focuses on me sharply, now he stares at me as he did in my mother’s room last night, as he did so long ago in Akhet-Aten when I had him kill our uncle Aanen. Once again our eyes lock, but this time I know it will be the last time, for I will never again accept from him or anyone such insolence, never again for even a single moment, ever.
Furiously I glare at him: with troubled, wide-staring eyes, he looks back.
No sound comes from anywhere as we pursue our contest to the end.
At last, just as I am about to explode in terrible anger—but you keep me from it, bless you, Father Aten, I remain icy calm—his eyes finally drop, and as if to put a good face on it and pretend that he is still in command, he whirls sharply about and cries:
“Two detachments of soldiers with battering rams! To my side at once!”
And abruptly, like little puppets—my little puppets, now, forever and ever—two detachments of twenty soldiers each hastily separate from the rest, run to the barracks that guards the temple and return as fast as they can with the battering rams.
“Now!” I cry, and nowhere in the world anywhere is there any sound but my voice, so still and terrified is everyone. “Batter down the doors of evil Amon!”
There is a great gasp from the crowd and the soldiers pause uncertainly, terrified of the god and terrified of me, not knowing which to be more afraid of. They will learn.
“Batter them down!” I shout, my voice now choked with emotion but sounding clearly enough, I gather, for another irrepressible gasp of disbelief comes from the throng and seems to fill the world for a second before I turn around and wither it instantly to silence with my fierce, implacable gaze. (In that moment I look into the eyes of my mother, Nefertiti, my uncle Aye, my children, but I know not them and they know not me. We no longer exist for one another. They are only a pathetic little huddle of people, as terrified and indistinguishable to me as all the rest.)
“General Horemheb—” I shout, permitting my voice to rise ominously as you, Father Aten, now instruct me to do.
And Horemheb yields to me completely at last.
“You have heard the King!” he shouts. “Batter down the doors of the temple of Amon!”
The soldiers draw back, shift the heavy iron-tipped timbers for a firmer grip, tense themselves to hurtle forward—when suddenly from the side hasten two white-robed figures. One moves shakily with a wooden stick, the other assists at his elbow. It is Maya and Hatsuret, of course, and before the soldiers can move, they have spread-eagled themselves across the two great doors, hands linked.
A groan goes up from the crowd, but for you and me, Father Aten, it is the opportunity of a lifetime. I shall get them both, the ancient fool and the younger one who now sparks Amon.
“Strike!” I shout, the word bursting clearly from my emotion-choked throat, so great is my determination. “Strike NOW!”
> And as if mesmerized and terrified beyond thinking, as indeed they are, the two companies of soldiers hurtle forward.
There is a great crunching and grinding, a terrible agonized shriek from the crowd—and the ancient doors collapse in a welter of splinters and dust and blood.
Then all is quiet again as I cry loudly so that all may hear:
“Brother! Cousin! Accompany me and witness the end that will come to all who defy Pharaoh!”
We advance slowly through the dazed soldiers, who have let the battering rams drop to the ground now that they have done their work and are staring in blank-faced horror at what remains. It is Smenkhkara who is the first to see what has happened.
“But where,” he asks stupidly, “is Hatsuret?”
He is right. Only one flesh-stripped pair of legs, one set of shattered arms, one bloody ripped white robe, one crushed and spilling skull, can be seen among the splintered shards. Hatsuret, that clever one, has left old Maya to die and has slipped aside just in time. He is lost now among the sheltering crowds. But he will not escape my vengeance.
“Be it known,” I shout, swinging about as fast as I can to face the terrified mass, “that from this day forward there rests upon the head of the traitorous priest Hatsuret a bounty of a thousand in gold. Whosoever brings him to me dead or alive will receive still further rewards and the assurance of a peaceful and happy life for himself and his family, so long as they all shall live!”
I wait for a moment, but of course there is no immediate response: Amon still has too many friends. Hatsuret is well hidden and sure to remain so, for a while. But I will have him yet.
“General Horemheb,” I command, still facing the crowd, “take with you sufficient soldiers to accomplish the task and go you in to the altar and bring to me the Sacred Barque and the statue of the god Amon-Ra!”
Once again the crowd utters a deep, shuddering gasp, once again our eyes lock in furious combat, until suddenly once again his rigid gaze collapses and I see that he is finally broken completely to my will. For this I shall worship you forever, Father Aten, for now I know that I need worry no longer—as secretly I often have—about the loyalty of my cousin Horemheb. He is my liege, and yours, forever.