by Overton, Max
"You shall have my help, Lord Horemheb," Seti declared. "Tell me how I may render assistance."
"Give me your son."
"My son? He is a capable soldier but young and foolish."
"Young maybe," Horemheb replied. "But not foolish. I saw him in a tight situation today, old friend. I can see his potential. I have a use for him."
***
Amenemhet, First Prophet of Amun-Re; Hem-netjer, High Priest; servant of the god in the centre of his worship in the great temple of Amun in Waset, rose naked from the waters of the sacred temple lake in the first light of dawn and stepped toward his servants. Totally devoid of body hair, even down to plucked eyebrows and eyelashes, his appearance was of an indolent over-fed courtier, his expression one of perpetual surprise. Yet outward appearance misled many, for Amenemhet was the most powerful man in the Land of the Nine Bows, more powerful even than King Nebmaetre Amenhotep, and he had long years of practice in wielding this power.
Stepping from the water, Amenemhet lifted his arms and allowed his body servants to wrap the clean, white, linen robes around him, adjust the leopard skin of authority around his shoulders, lifting his feet one by one for his new papyrus sandals. Somewhere behind the temple, the clothes he wore the previous day were already disappearing in flames and smoke. God's servant, like the god himself, wore new clothes every day.
The morning hymn rose sweet and beautiful to the heavens from the temple. Amenemhet nodded to the other prophets of Amun-Re, Aanen, Bakt and Haremakhet, before leading the way back into the temple. They walked through the dim echoing halls of the temple, through the throngs of priests and servants toward the innermost recesses, toward the home of the god. As ever, Amenemhet could feel the presence of the god, a prickling sensation as if the nonexistent hairs on the back of his neck strove to stand up. He glanced sidelong at the other prophets, noting similar awed expressions on the faces of Bakt and Haremakhet. Not on Aanen's though. Why not ?
Dismissing it from his mind, Amenemhet strode into the inner room, the home of the great gilded-wood shrine to the god. Standing in front of the shrine were arrayed men and women, singers selected for their clear voices, arms upraised and mouths open--the last phrases of the Morning Hymn to Amun-Re dying away into the lofty recesses of the pillared hall.
The singers drew back, melting away on each side as the prophets walked up to the bolted and tied doors of the shrine. Haremakhet cleared his throat and, still facing the shrine, turned his head to address the room. One never turned one's back on the god.
"The Lord Amun-Re, most high, beneficent creator, has awoken. Let the doors be opened that we may greet him."
Aanen and Bakt moved forward, untying the fine flax cords that bound the golden bolts holding the doors of the shrine closed. They drew back the bolts softly and swung the doors wide. A breathless sigh of awe swept into the shadows in the high-ceilinged room as the singers, watching from the entrance way, fell to their knees.
The supreme god of Waset, ram-headed, stared out of the great shrine, the light of the torches flickering and reflecting off his gilded features. Life-size for a man, though no doubt smaller than the actual god, this repository for the god's ka was surmounted by the solar disk, the double plumes and the royal uraeus.
Amenemhet stepped forward and after bowing deeply, stood tall and addressed the god with words of praise. "Amun-Re, Lord of the thrones of the Two Lands, Dweller in Waset, Great God who appears in the horizon, draw near to us and bless us with your holy presence." He stood as if listening for a few moments before saying. "Let the god be brought forth."
At once, Bakt and Haremakhet ran forward, slipping two stout wooden staves through openings in the plinth below the statue. With a muffled groan they took the weight and slowly inched out sideways as Amenemhet backed slowly away. Once clear of the doors of the shrine, they lowered the statue, withdrew the poles and replaced them in the shrine, closing the doors once more.
"Bring water, bring incense and fine linen," Aanen ordered.
Priests ran forward with golden bowls of fresh lake water, fine linen towels and crisp white linen skirts. Others held the incense bowls, lighting them with long tapers, the clouds of gray-white smoke wafting over the statue. The shadows cast by the flickering torches and incense made the gilded limbs of the statue appear to move. Fresh water bathed the god before he was dressed in new clothes, a deep collar necklace of enameled lapis and gold hung about him, a close-fitting tunic supported by elaborately worked shoulder straps hid his naked form from the priests. Jeweled bracelets and armlets followed, and, last of all, a heavy gold ankh placed in his lowered right hand, and a golden scepter in his outstretched left hand.
Perfumes and cosmetics followed, until the room reeked of costly unguents. The priests bearing the cosmetic pallets withdrew and the lesser servants of the god bore in his morning feast. A pristine linen cloth covered the spotless stone floor and on this were laid smoking joints of meat, roast fowls, freshly-baked bread, bowls of fruit and vegetables, pitchers of wine and great bowls of beer. Amenemhet took a bowl of fresh lake water and dipped a feather in it, sprinkling the food with a libation, while Aanen lit the candle of feasting. The servants left and musicians trooped in, ranging themselves around the room, striking up a stirring melody to which naked dancing girls dipped and pirouetted for the enjoyment of the god. The prophets of Amun stood around to watch the god eat.
The candle burned lower and as the flame crept down to a pre-set level, Amenemhet clapped his hands. At once, the musicians and dancers left the room, backing out with heads held low. The servants entered once more, clearing away the untouched food and the linen floor-cloth.
The four prophets of Amun-Re bowed low and backed through the door to the inner sanctum, closing and sealing the door behind them.
Bakt grunted as they turned away, his stomach making a faint groaning sound. "I'm hungry. That roast duck smelled especially appetizing this morning."
"Just as well the god left you some then." Aanen smiled and led the way along passages toward the First Prophet's chambers.
The servants had left a good selection of the finest food from Amun-Re's meal on a table inside the chamber. Bakt descended on the meal and ripped off a leg from the roast duck, biting into the fragrant flesh. "I needed that," he mumbled through the food. He swallowed and took another bite, juices running down his chin. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and grinned.
Amenemhet closed the door carefully before pouring himself a cup of wine. He gestured toward the table. "Don't stand on ceremony." He waited until the others had helped themselves to food and drink. "We need to talk."
Aanen removed a sleeping cat from a chair and seated himself near the table, reaching out for a small bunch of grapes. "What about?"
"Neferkheperure Waenre Amenhotep."
"The regent?" Haremakhet frowned, chewing on a piece of bread. "What is the problem?"
Amenemhet sipped his wine and looked open-faced at Aanen. "Why don't you tell us, Second Prophet? What is it about the young prince that worries me?"
Aanen stared back. He spat grape pips into his hand and popped another one into his mouth before replying. "You refer to his parentage?"
"His parentage?" Haremakhet's eyes widened. "You are not saying he...he is...not ..."
"Of course not," cut in Amenemhet. "Use your mind. There is no doubt he is the natural son of Nebmaetre and ..."
"Queen Tiye," Aanen finished. "You are referring to her Khabiru roots." He looked hard at Amenemhet, attempting to stare him down. After a few moments he looked away. "And mine, First Prophet. She is my sister, as the king's advisor Ay is my brother."
"No one doubts your loyalty, Aanen, nor that of your brother and sister."
"What then?"
"Tell me of the gods of the Khabiru."
"God, First Prophet. They worship only one."
"Then tell me of him--or is it her? Do they worship a goddess?"
"You know they do not. Why do you ask me?
We have talked of this before."
"Indulge me, Aanen. Also, I seek to instruct Bakt and Haremakhet."
Bakt looked up from the remains of the roast duck. "Do I need instruction, Amenemhet? About a heathen god of the nations?"
Aanen sighed. "Very well. Perhaps then you will tell us what this is all about." He paused and spat out another few grape seeds, one of which landed near the cat, waking it. "There is but one god now. No one knows if he has a name ..."
"What!" Haremakhet grinned. "Not even his priests?"
"No. He has never revealed a name but he is known as 'El' which just means god, and sometimes as 'Adon' which means lord. He is a god of the mountaintops and he used to be worshiped there."
"What is his form, his aspect?"
"He has none. The Khabiru have no statues of man or animal that they recognize as their god." Aanen shrugged. "He is a very nondescript god though some say his face shines with a great radiance, too bright to look at."
"I thought you said he did not look like a man. How can he have a face then, shining or otherwise?"
"I do not know, Bakt. I only repeat what I have heard."
"So this shining god of the Khabiru is a sun god," Amenemhet said slowly. "He is known as Adon, which in Kemetu is pronounced Aten. The Khabiru worship the Aten."
"An interesting thought," Haremakhet said. "But how is it relevant? No doubt all the gods that other nations worship are really the true gods in another guise."
"What makes it relevant is that the old king Nebmaetre has brought the worship of the Aten out of obscurity, and, by a coincidence, his beloved Great Wife Tiye is Khabiru, a people who worship the Aten." Amenemhet drained his wine, crossed to the table, and refilled his cup. "That in itself would not matter. The Two Lands are replete with gods and who the king holds close to his heart is a matter between himself and heaven. No, what matters is his son, Waenre."
"How?" Bakt asked. He wiped his greasy fingers on a piece of bread and bit into it. "You just said it did not matter."
"Nebmaetre knows he holds the kingship with the blessing of Amun. All the kings of his line have accepted the throne from Amun and know that a balance must be kept; the Ma'at of the Two Lands must be maintained. But now for the first time we have a king who is a foreigner, a son of the Khabiru. Waenre is showing signs that his worship of the Aten is close to his heart."
"Again I ask; how is it relevant? As long as Amun is king of gods, what does it matter if the young king worships the Aten? The sun disk is just another aspect of Re after all."
"Haremakhet," Aanen chided. "Must you be sent back to school? It is not just a matter of worshipping one or another of our gods; it comes down to power and wealth. Put bluntly, the wealth that pours into our coffers."
"Succinctly put, Aanen," Amenemhet commented, "If somewhat cynical."
Aanen shrugged. "Kemet is stable under a strong line of kings because they have put Amun first." He reached down and scratched the cat behind one ear. It arched its back and purred.
Bakt finished his loaf of bread and reached for a bowl of figs. "And you think that will change under the young king Waenre?"
"It may," Amenemhet said quietly. "He is young, and idealistic, and close to his mother who openly worships the Aten. His father Nebmaetre will not recover his health."
"I think you make too much of it, First Prophet," Bakt mumbled around a mouthful of fig.
"Besides which," Haremakhet added. "There is not much you can do about it."
"Actually there is," Aanen said. "But I would not advise such a course."
Amenemhet put down the cup and stared at the Second Prophet. "Why not?"
"Eh?" Bakt's mouth opened and a half-chewed fig fell to the floor unnoticed by all except the cat who investigated the fruit, sniffing it delicately. "What do you mean, Aanen? What can be done?"
"The Hem-netjer of Amun is more powerful than the king." Aanen looked across the room at Amenemhet, his face impassive. "He can consecrate the king into Amun's peace, or refuse, which means Waenre cannot be king. Of course, that would throw the Two Lands into chaos as there is no other candidate."
"There are daughters," Amenemhet said. "One could be married off to a suitable noble."
"Sitamen is already married to her own father, as is Iset. Henuttaneb and Nebetiah are not yet old enough. That leaves Sitamen's young son Smenkhkare or Tiye's unborn offspring, should it be male. Both are too young. You cannot risk anarchy, First Prophet. You must consecrate Waenre this afternoon."
Amenemhet sighed. "Yes, I cannot risk our beloved land. Yet I fear for Kemet under this young king."
***
Neferkheperure Waenre Amenhotep, Lord of the Two Lands, god-on-earth, King of Upper and Lower Kemet, Son of Re who engenders Ma'at, Lord of Crowns, sat on a padded couch in his private rooms fondling his wife.
A tall man for his time, Waenre was shaved completely except for wispy eyebrows. His high domed skull protruded backward, balancing his long, slightly prognathous face with its long nose and chin, lips full and pouting, eyes heavy and hooded. He sat naked except for an almost transparent kilt knotted around his hips, his protruding stomach, pale and hairless, hanging over the fabric. Pendulous pectorals, hinting already at breasts though he was still a young man, spoke, together with his belly, of a rich diet and long days spent indoors in leisurely pursuits. His kilt did nothing to hide his growing tumescence as his long, thin fingers stroked the beautiful woman beside him on the couch.
The woman, too, was striking, though in quite a different way to the young king. Almost as tall as Waenre, she exuded health and youth and a vibrant energy. Head shaven like the king's, the dome of her skull was smooth and rounded, her face small with high cheekbones and delicate features. Her eyes, accentuated by the strong cosmetic enhancements of lapis, malachite and kohl, looked larger than life and more striking. Small rouged lips smiled enigmatically, her eyes glancing sideways at her husband. A long neck swept down to small firm breasts and a flat stomach, still taut despite the births of two daughters in the last three years.
Cousin to the king, the woman had been named simply Nefer--beauty--at birth by her proud father Ay, son of Yuya. On the occasion of her marriage as a nineteen-year-old to the newly-raised, co-regent Waenre Amenhotep, the old king Nebmaetre Amenhotep had exclaimed at her beauty during the ceremony, "A beautiful woman has come!" She had henceforth been known as Nefertiti, thought by many to be the most beautiful woman on earth.
Nefertiti lifted a hand from where they lay in her naked lap and slipped it under Waenre's kilt. "I will make you forget that awful lady Sebtitis. I thought she was going to disrobe in front of you tonight."
The king groaned softly, his lips parting as he thrust his fingers down between the queen's thighs, moving up toward her hairless cleft. "She is forgotten already," he gasped.
A discrete cough from the doorway distracted him and he turned to see his mother, Queen Tiye, standing just inside the room. He groaned again, this time with an edge of frustration in his voice.
"What do you want, mother? It is late and I really do not want to be disturbed."
"My apologies, son." Tiye swept into the room, as poised as any woman can be who is elderly and at full term. Wearing a deep blue robe of fine linen over a paler dress fastened below her pendulous breasts, she crossed to a low table underneath the large window looking out toward the river. Lights, soft and butter-yellow picked out the richer homes in the late evening, beneath a star-studded sky. Picking up an ornate faience goblet she poured herself a drink from a jug of cool clear water.
"Mother, I am king now, not just a co-regent, but full regent, acting not only on behalf of my sick father, but also on my own behalf. I want to be left alone with my wife." He withdrew his hand from between Nefertiti's thighs.
"Don't pout, Amenhotep," Tiye said mildly. "A king may have greater freedoms but he also has greater responsibilities. Have the last four years as co-regent taught you nothing?"
With a murmur of endearment and aft
er raising a slim finger to her husband's lips, Nefertiti arose from the couch and crossed to where Tiye stood by the window. She bent and kissed the old queen's swollen belly, then straightening, kissed her cheek before pouring herself a cup of watered wine. "You are well, beloved mother?"
"Yes, child. I have had children before; this one will arrive tonight or tomorrow. I can feel it."
"Then we must see you settled, mother. Let me call the midwives."
Queen Tiye shook her head, her crisply curled wig slipping slightly as she moved. "Time enough, daughter. I must speak with my son." She hesitated a moment, glancing at Waenre who sat glowering on the couch, then back at Nefertiti. "Both of you. This will concern you, too."
"This will not wait until tomorrow?" Waenre sighed and stood up, adjusting himself beneath his kilt. He crossed the room to a carved wooden box in the far corner. Positioning himself above the hole in the lid, he flipped back his kilt and directed a strong stream of urine into the pottery bowl within the box. Shaking the last drops off, he turned away as a young boy entered the room. The boy kept his eyes on the ground but lifted the lid of the box, removed the bowl, and replaced it with another one. He backed away carefully, taking care not to spill his burden.
"Well, mother? What is it you must say that will not wait?"
Tiye settled herself on the edge of the royal bed, locking her hands below her belly. For a woman who had ruled Kemet alongside her husband Nebmaetre for nearly thirty years and effectively by herself for the last six months, she looked ill at ease, uncomfortable. She fidgeted, avoiding her son's eyes.
"The ceremony of consecration went well this afternoon, I thought."
Waenre looked at his mother and said nothing. Nefertiti, her naked body gleaming copper-coloured in the soft lights of the room, crossed to her husband and put a slim arm around his waist.
"What is it you want to say, beloved mother, yet cannot?"
Tiye raised her head. "You really are a most beautiful woman, Nefertiti, my daughter. And wise beyond your years. I look to you to counsel my son."