by Overton, Max
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Chapter Nineteen
Over the next three days, Horemheb stamped his authority on the city of Amun. The fact that he was able to do it with forty men was due in equal parts to the confidence and determination he showed, and to the desire for order in the minds of the citizens. The inter-regnum period between the death of one king and the coronation of the next is unsettling enough, without the added anxiety that war may break out between factions vying for the vacant throne.
Lord Nebamen seethed at the lost opportunity, and worried over the absence of the guiding hand of Lord Meryamun. He had not stayed at the docks to see him arrested, but he was sure by now he must have told Horemheb everything.
"Why have we not been arrested then?" Raweret asked.
"Because Horemheb does not have the strength. He only has forty or fifty men he can trust and most of those will be needed to contain the remnants of the Amun legion."
"So what do we do?"
"I don't know. That son of a whore Meryamun did not tell me if he had any contingency plans should the assassination go wrong. For all we know, there could be another plan unfolding right now...or not. Should we flee or stick it out?"
"He has sent for Paramessu, you know."
Nebamen stared at Lord Sephotep. "How do you know?"
"I have a servant with...connections in the palace. She heard the order go out."
"When?"
"Three days ago. As soon as he got to the palace."
"Glory of Amun," Raweret muttered. "He could return at any minute."
"And then he'll have all the men he needs to arrest us," Sephotep added.
Nebamen paced, wringing his hands. "I wish Meryamun was here. I don't know what to do. He was a fool to get himself arrested, just when we need him most."
"Do we, though?" Raweret asked. "He came up with a plan that failed miserably. Why should we not think for ourselves?"
"You have a plan? You?"
Raweret shrugged. "How hard can it be? Look, Horemheb has neutralised the Amun legion, but they are not the only men available to us."
"You mean the Medjay police?" Sephotep asked.
"No, they have shown no signs of support, nor has Userhet even replied to my summons..."
"You went to Userhet without consulting me?" Nebamen's voice rose in indignation.
"Someone had to act, brother. Now, to get back to my plan. We all have households, with many servants. I have at least a hundred; Nebamen, I know you have more..."
"And I have close on a hundred too," Sephotep said.
"So we have over three hundred men we can arm. Yes, I know they are not trained, but if they are only facing fifty soldiers, I think they can overwhelm them. I even have a few archers which will even the odds."
"Why did you not think of this before?" Nebamen demanded.
"We had Meryamun's plan."
"We will have to act fast--before Paramessu returns," Sephotep said.
Nebamen thought for a few moments. "Tonight. Horemheb will bury Ay tonight. We can ambush his party on the way back."
"And if Paramessu returns before then?"
Raweret shrugged. "Then all is lost. We either wait to be arrested or we flee. Pray to all the gods it does not come to that."
* * *
The sun sank in a great red ball behind the western cliffs and the shadow of its passing raced across the Great River as if to enfold the dead king in its embrace. Irimaat Ay's great gilded coffin lay on a bier in the forecourt of the Temple of Amun while the priests gathered and formed themselves into a procession. Statues of the god Amun took their place in front of the coffin, and other statues from a hundred other gods would join the long column of mourners as it passed through the streets of the city.
The streets were crowded, even though it was the hour when the evening meal was prepared. Thousands of people lined the route of the funeral procession, waiting for a brief glimpse of the gilded coffin and the rich panoply of the priestly vestments and the golden statues. Few of them had any love for the old king, but it was considered wise to pay one's respects to a dead king on his burial day. No-one knew the time of his own passing and respect shown now might count with the gods when one came at last to the Halls of the Dead.
Torchlight flickered and leapt along the route, the shadows swaying and running alongside the shuffling mourners. Horemheb was there, just in front of the king's coffin, acting as kin. Everyone knew he would open the dead king's mouth that night, before returning to claim the vacant throne as his own. Few people thought about it. The process of succession concerned only the rich and powerful. The people just wanted a new king and the preservation of Ma'at, the continuation of truth, peace, law and justice. The people stood in silence, watching the final act of one reign and the first of a new one. Most could remember another such procession a mere four years before, when the young king Tutankhamen had been laid to rest. That funeral had been a hurried affair in a city gripped by fear; this time there were only a handful of troops in view, and the mood of the city was different, more hopeful.
The procession arrived at the royal docks once more and the golden barge that had carried the dead king up from Ineb Hedj was waiting to convey him on his last voyage, the short trip across the river to the darkened western bank. Carefully, the coffin was carried aboard and positioned. The dignitaries that would attend the final laying to rest followed--Horemheb, a selected guard of his trusted soldiers under the command of Neferikare, the senior priests of Amun, the Mayor and a small group of the most senior nobles. Noticeable by their absence were the two most senior nobles, Lords Nebamen and Raweret. Horemheb noted their absence, but said nothing, filing away the information for later action.
Sailors cast off the ropes and others pushed the barge away from the dock with long poles. The captain let the barge drift out until there was enough room to put out the oars, and under his skilful guidance the barge gathered way and winged swiftly over the river toward the gathering of golden fire awaiting them on the far bank. Once there, the heavy gilded coffin was off-loaded and put onto a funerary sledge. Traditionally, a king went to his last sleep on polished wood rather than oiled wheels, and a team of strong oxen were needed to put the heavy vehicle over the stony ground.
The smaller procession wound its way through the western farmlands, past the funerary temples dedicated to other kings, and started up the dark road that led into the burial valley. Jackals split the night with their eerie cries and owls drifted overhead or called from the thorn thickets beside the road. The air was cool away from the river, and many of the mourners drew their cloaks about them as they slowly walked behind the sledge.
Horemheb strode along in front, stopping every few minutes to allow the sledge to catch up. He remembered another funeral, only twenty years before, when the great king Nebmaetre Amenhotep had followed this same route into the burial valley. He felt the first stirrings of anger when he thought of the magnificence of that last great king and the weak and impotent men that had followed him on the throne of Kemet.
I will be different , he vowed. I will be a great king, a worthy successor to Nebmaetre. I should have followed him, been the next king instead of that weakling heretic. Then Kemet would still be strong and prosperous .
The road wound on into the darkened valley, threading its way through great piles of rubble. Rocks clattered and slipped as unseen things hurried from the torch-lit path of men, and ahead lay the blackness of the cliffs and the star-strewn body of the goddess Nut stretched out above them. A hole gaped at the bottom of the cliff and Horemheb realised they had reached the tomb cut into its base.
The priests of Amun stood to one side, their ceremonial bleached robes gleaming in the torchlight, their leopard-skin capes seeming almost alive in the twitching shadows. They carried pottery lamps with twisted flax wicks in a reservoir of salted fine oil, and the more senior of them bore the instruments of opening and liberation that the dead king would soon need.
Why am I even doing this ? Horemheb thought. I hate the man and hope with every fibre of my being that he suffers torment for eternity. I should not be giving him a chance for eternal peace .
Slaves unloaded the funeral sledge, bearing the heavy gilded coffin to one side and propping it up against the cliff side, the Ka statue of Ay alongside it. Others removed baskets of grave goods, food and drink that would last Ay through eternity, chests packed with fine linen robes, headdresses and sandals, a favourite cup, a hunting bow and quiver of arrows, an ornate dagger and jewellery. These things would join the treasure already packed into the small chambers of the tomb. This would be no rich burial such as that of Nebmaetre Amenhotep, nor even of the young Tutankhamen. The goods included were little more than lip service to a custom extending back thousands of years--the custom of sending a man into eternity with the good things of life so he would never again be in need.
Junior priests oversaw the placement of the grave goods and ensured enough room was left in the cramped confines of the tomb to manoeuvre the great gilded coffins into place in the carved red quartzite sarcophagus. Winged goddesses knelt at the four corners of the edifice, shielding where the king would lie. Over them would be fitted golden screens, likewise carved and ornamented. For now, they stood stacked against one wall, awaiting the final act.
The Hem-Netjer of Amun, First Prophet Bakt, started the ceremony of 'Opening the Mouth'. Slaves carried urns of purified water to him and he carefully washed the Ka statue with linen that had never been used for anything, and the blessed water. Everyone's attention was on the statue now, ignoring the spiced and wrapped body of the king in his golden coffins. The body was only the habitation of the Ba, whereas the Ka, returning from the underworld, could inhabit the Ka statue and partake of the grave goods. Lustrations of oil followed the water and all the time, the priests intoned the sacred phrases, binding the Ka of the king to the gods.
Bakt took the rose quartz Pesheskef and blessed it, handing it to Horemheb. He took it and touched the forked instrument to the lips of the Ka statue, uttering the ritual prayers. The Second prophet of Amun took it from him and Bakt passed him the Seb Ur sceptre, an adze made of the curious blue metal that had fallen from the sky. Again, the lips of the Ka statue was touched and the instrument handed to a lesser priest. The Ur Hekau sceptre came next and Horemheb performed the last touching of the statue's lips.
"It is done," Bakt declared.
The funeral feast began. Because the tomb itself was small and cramped, the mourners ate under the night sky. The clink of cups and the sounds of eating were accompanied by the distant howls of jackals and the sighing of the cold night air in the bare canyons of the burial valley. Few words were spoken, and Horemheb said nothing, preferring to think his own thoughts.
I must do this for form's sake, but once I am king, you will feel my fury, Ay. I have opened the mouth of your Ka statue but make the most of it, for I will lay waste to your tomb and you will wander homeless through the darkness for a million years .
The scraps of the meal were gathered together and the remnants placed within the tomb. Slaves now carried the heavy nested coffins down the first stairs, along a short corridor, more stairs, then another corridor and into a side chamber where the rose quartz sarcophagus lay. Priests supervised the hoisting of the golden effigy into its container and the lid firmly lowered into place. The golden shrines were erected and the bronze pins hammered into place, holding it together. The doors of the shrine were fastened with linen cords tied with sacred knots and papyrus inscribed with prayers for the dead king's safety attached. The junior priests placed sacred objects around the golden shrine--objects designed to help the king in his journey to the afterlife--and the doors to the burial chamber were sealed.
The funeral party retraced their steps, leaving torches burning to light the inside of the tomb for a while longer before stygian blackness enveloped it for eternity. Each door in the passage was shut and sealed and brickwork quickly erected to protect them. A final door at the bottom of the first flight of stairs was blocked with dressed stone and mortar and the whole of the stairwell filled with rubble from the valley floor. When the slaves had finished, there was nothing to indicate the presence of a tomb.
I know where you lie though , Horemheb thought. And I will return to destroy you .
The funeral party remained silent while in the Great Valley, the presence of death and eternity all around them, but by the time they reached the funerary temples on the borders of the farmland near the river, their spirits lifted. The king was dead and buried. He was in the past and now men could look forward to a fresh beginning. People drew aside from Lord Horemheb, leaving him to walk in a space of his own. They sensed the mantle of destiny had passed to him and knew that shortly he would hold the power of life and death over them all.
The barge was waiting to carry them back across the river to the sleeping city of Waset. Neferikare came to stand beside Horemheb in the prow of the barge as the sailors strained at their oars.
"I'll be glad to get to my bed," Neferikare said conversationally. "That was the first funeral I've attended and it was certainly draining."
Horemheb grunted, breaking off his thoughts. "It was all show," he replied. "Nobody liked the man, but we all had to pretend we did. It seemed dishonest."
"I never met him, sir. What was he like, the old king?"
"A very capable minister, ruthless and ambitious. As a king, he was less effective. He lost his balance, savagery outweighing ability. If you got in his way, you died."
"I'm glad we have you now, sir."
Horemheb studied the young officer standing beside him in the darkness, wondering if he was being honest or just fawning. "That is with the gods."
The two men stood in silence as the barge drew in toward the docks again.
"There's something going on, sir. I can see armed men."
Horemheb peered forward. "I cannot make out the banners. How many men have we got on board?"
"Twenty, sir, but only lightly armed. This was supposed to be ceremonial. Are you expecting trouble?"
"We nearly had trouble this morning. Now it looks as if Nebamen has found his courage. See if you can get the captain to lend us a few of his sailors again."
"We could stand off and row to another mooring, sir."
"I am not running, Neferikare. Learn that about me tonight if nothing else. I'd rather die facing my foe with a good blade in my hand than to live in the knowledge I could not face my enemies."
The barge entered still water and drifted slowly to shore. There were few torches burning on shore now and the armed men were hard to make out, being little more than massed bodies in ranks. A man stepped out from dark ranks and raised his hands to frame his mouth.
"What kept you?" he bellowed across the still water.
"Paramessu? When did you get back?"
"Not an hour ago. I found a whole lot of farmers and servants on the docks, armed with staves and knives, and a few poncing noblemen. I ran them off. Was that the right thing to do?"
Horemheb laughed, and as the barge neared the dock, he ran and jumped across the narrowing gap. He embraced Paramessu and slapped him on the back. "Who were the noblemen?"
"I only recognised Nebamen, Raweret and Sephotep. Sephotep's dead but the other two ran off before I could get to them. Their army of servants fled at the sight of sharp bronze."
"No matter, we'll find them soon enough. Now, come up to the palace and you can tell me what you've been up to."
"So Ay is buried?"
"Yes, tomorrow I wed and the day after, as an official member of the royal family, I am crowned King of the Two Kingdoms."
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Chapter Twenty
The City of Amun erupted in a blaze of colour the day after the burial of the king. Banners were unfurled on every public building and trestle tables were erected on every major intersection. The treasurer, on instructions from Horemheb,
released gold and silver for the festivities, and by mid-morning, huge cooking fires were roasting whole oxen. Bread was baked in enormous amounts, enough for the whole population and weak beer brewed for every man, woman and child to toast the nuptials of Lord Horemheb and Lady Beketaten.
Many of the inhabitants of Waset knew Lady Beketaten from her childhood in the palace, and later as a Councillor for her brother Djeserkheperu Smenkhkare. Then they had called her Scarab, and loved her, but she had returned as a wild, wounded desert woman and they were no longer sure of her. When she was carried through the streets in a litter borne aloft by stalwart slaves, they stopped and stared and some called out a greeting, though hesitantly. Scarab felt their uncertainty and grieved for lost days, wishing that she could just quietly move among them, talking and listening to their problems, helping where she could. Life had gotten away from her these past dozen years and she thought nostalgically of a simpler existence.
I cannot wind back the seasons , she thought. The litter jolted as one of the slaves stepped in a pothole and she gripped the sides of the chair to stop herself falling. On an even footing once more, she straightened her headdress and smoothed her black wig back into place. The dress she wore was antique; dating from her grandmother's time, stiff and heavy and uncomfortable, unlike the filmier linen dresses she had worn as a princess in Akhet-Aten. Probably more seemly though. I am no longer a desirable young girl . I wish it was not Horemheb I was marrying though. I wish it was... She thrust her desires away and steeled herself for the ordeal ahead. The gods have deserted me and I must bend to their will. I am powerless to avoid my fate, and it is no more than many women must endure .
Her progression passed through every part of the city, for it was important that everyone see the bride and know that her bloodline was to be joined to that of her husband. A contingent of the Sobek legion followed behind under the command of Neferikare, ostensibly as an honour guard, but more to prevent the bride from running off. Horemheb had been of a mind to cancel the showing of the bride, but knew that if he did, there would be always those who would say the marriage had never occurred. A herald preceded Scarab's litter, and at every public square, or where crowds of people gathered, he called out loudly for people to attend and bear witness, that Lord Horemheb married on this day the Lady Beketaten, daughter of Nebmaetre Amenhotep.