Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Historical, #Mythology & Folk Tales, #Historical Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #fairy tales
Return to Thebes (23 page)
“But,” he says, his face stubborn, “funds and energies will have to be diverted to enlarging the temple at Karnak, will they not? How does that fit your complacent picture of it?”
“I am not complacent,” I retort, “I am simply practical. It is true that if we do that—and I for one think we must, for he is the Living Horus and he has given the direct order, and it is no great thing, and I will not be a party to a struggle over something so minor—it will take some funds and some number of workmen to do it. But neither will be great, I am sure of that. He will be satisfied with little. It is a gesture of policy on his part: I do not for a moment believe he wishes us to empty the treasury to satisfy it. If worst came to worst, I should simply refuse, in any event. There is nothing he could do. I think even at thirteen he is wise enough not to contest it. We can afford to bend a little.”
“And the new set of scepters, which are unneeded and an unnecessary flaunting of the Aten in the face of Amon? And the new throne, which is even more so?” He shakes his head. “No, Father: there is a purpose here that reaches far. It must not be allowed to grow.”
“It will not be. But there is no need for it to come to open battle.”
His eyes narrow and he looks back down the years. I know what he sees and brace myself for his next remark.
“I remember other times when you said that. I remember other times when you counseled temporizing and compromise. And I remember what happened then, how finally it all ran on too long and got out of hand, and you and I had to—”
“Stop!” I cry harshly, but he continues inexorably to the end.
“—when you and I had to countenance, and finally commit, murder—”
“
Stop!
”
“—
murder,
because we did not act soon enough.… And, Father”—his voice becomes low and he looks at me unblinking with the iron of my own soul in him, but many years younger—“we must face
now,
unafraid and unhesitating, the possibility that it may have to come to that again.”
“No!” I cry desperately. “
No!
”
“Cut down the young shoot now before it becomes a great tree, Father,” he says, voice still low but implacable. “Cut it down
now
!”
For several moments I am unable to answer him, so hurtfully and with such searing force does my breath tear through my lungs, so wildly does my heart pound within my breast, so deeply do I crave that sanity return to this conversation which has suddenly become so grim. Too many ghosts surround us now—too many! I am not sure, for a little, whether I can muster strength to reply to him.
But presently my breathing calms, my heart subsides, a lifelong steadiness returns to the Regent Aye. When I speak at last it is in my customary calm and measured tones.
“There will be no more killing in the House of Thebes. Neb-Kheperu-Ra will not be permitted to go too far, neither will any man, least of all in his own family, be permitted to raise his hand against him. All will proceed according to
ma’at
and justice as has been the immemorial way of Kemet. Only thus can the Two Lands be served. And do not forget, my son: it is the Two Lands
we
serve, not the Two Lands that serve us.”
He looks at me for a long time, his emotions clear but his courage still not great enough to make the final challenge that both of us know he inevitably will someday. I return him look for look and never flinch, though it calls upon all my reserves to do so, and my reserves are also growing older now. But thank the gods they are still sufficient! It is his eyes, not mine, that finally yield.
He looks away again toward still roaring Thebes, whose wild hilarity sinks scarcely yet upon the night.
“I pray to the gods,” he says finally, his voice still very low, “that you are not making a terrible mistake, Father.”
“I pray that you will help me do all things right for Kemet,” I say gravely, “and that neither of us makes a mistake.”
“Good night, Father,” he says: bows low, kisses my hand; and straightens to go. His eyes once more meet mine and I read the message clear in them:
Watch yourself, Father. I am waiting.
And mine reply:
Watch yourself, Horemheb. I have outwaited shrewder men than you
… though I know in my heart what I now will never tell him: there are very few shrewder men than my son Horemheb.
I know, in fact, only one.
After he has gone I leave my room and walk slowly—hands locked behind my back—head bowed—brooding, brooding, brooding—for perhaps an hour along the sleeping pathways of Malkata. Only an occasional sentry greets me with hushed respect. All else is quiet in the Palace.
About my legs three dear little boys run and frolic, laughing, calling, racing, jumping, begging me to “play horsie,” “play ball,” “tell us a story!”
Ghosts accompany me—too many ghosts.
Across the river the drunken shouts of the happy kingdom still reverberate.
The Living Horus has returned to Thebes and all rejoice.
I shiver, and go in.
***
Tutankhamon
(life, health, prosperity!)
In the room adjoining, kind Ramesses and gentle Sitra snored; on his pallet against the wall young Seti, exhausted by our excited chatter of the glorious day, lay at last asleep, curled upon himself with occasional little gruntings like a puppy filled with dreams of hunts and chases. Very gently I reached out my hand and touched Ankhesenamon. As silently as I, she leaned close to me as I whispered, “I think I heard Horemheb speak to Ramesses a little while ago.”
“I, too,” she whispered back. “Ramesses said, ‘They are asleep,’ Horemheb, ‘I go to him now.’ Ramesses, ‘They will hear nothing.’ What do you think it means?”
“I think we should go and find out. Will you come with me?”
“Of course.”
Very carefully we rolled off the bed, our feet touched the floor without a sound. I slipped into my pleated kilt, she into her transparent gold-embroidered linen shift. Seti stirred uneasily, groaned, whimpered, turned and snuggled comfortably against the wall: his back was to us. At first softly, then with a deeper, steadier rhythm, he too began to snore.
The door was half ajar. We slipped past Ramesses and Sitra, drowned now in sleep like Seti. Very carefully we opened the door to the corridor: thank the gods it is well oiled and does not squeak. We were in the corridor, the door was closed behind us. All was silent. We clasped hands tightly: we were trembling but unafraid. We began to tiptoe along the corridor. Perhaps the gods directed our steps. Without word, without conscious decision, we found we were on our way to the rooms of my uncle Aye.
We took a turn in the corridor, bumped squarely into a sleeping guard. He staggered awake with a muffled exclamation, spear instinctively raised high. Instantly he saw who we were. I glared at him with my finger across my lips. He shrank back humbly against the wall.
“You will be silent!” I hissed. “You will tell no one!”
“Yes, Son of the Sun!” he whispered, trembling. “Oh yes, Your Majesty!”
“Good!” I whispered in return. “You will be rewarded well tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Majesty!” he whispered. “Oh, thank you, Son of the Sun!”
“
Shhhhh!
”
I hissed again sternly. He nodded with desperate earnest and we passed on.
Outside the audience room of my uncle Aye we heard their voices. We crouched close to the door. We listened, staring at one another wide-eyed in growing terror. When we realized Horemheb was about to leave, we turned and raced back as quickly and silently as we could. The guard gave us an elaborate wink and pretended he did not see or hear us: I really will give him some gold tomorrow.
We sneaked past deeply snoring Ramesses and Sitra, past deeply snoring Seti. Trembling we slipped back onto the bed; trembling we clutched one another tightly; trembling we fought for sleep that would not come. Across the river Thebes still roared—for us.
***
Seti
They thought I was asleep but I fooled them. I heard them whispering, I heard them slip out, I rose and followed them as far as I dared, until they met the guard; then I dared go no further, I turned and raced back to my pallet. Now they have returned and lie again within their golden bed. I can hear it shake with their trembling but I do not think it is love. I think they are awfully frightened of something. Tomorrow I shall tell my father.
***
Book IV
Ordeal of a God
1353 B.C.
***
Hatsuret
They move more and more toward the Aten, the two clever ones who have pretended to be such mild and humble children. They have made their dutiful tributes to Amon, they have begun to restore his temples and add to his riches, they have tried to persuade us they believe fully in his restoration to his rightful place at the right hand of the King … but with his left hand the King does other things.
The Aten’s temple at Karnak has been extended and enlarged. His priesthood, while reduced, remains active in many places. The temples at Akhet-Aten, now almost deserted save for a few squatters who grub out their meager existence amid the crumbling mud walls of empty homes and ruined palaces, are still kept up. He uses the Aten’s crook and flail in public ceremonies almost as often as he uses Amon’s; and the special throne with its arrogant flaunting of the Heretic’s god conferring his blessing upon their ostentatious domesticity is carried with them, and used, wherever they go up and down the length of Kemet.
The Aten is not dead in the Two Lands, he is not even lowered as Pharaoh promised. He is simply being kept in reserve, and may be brought out again at any time to overwhelm us.
This I think Tutankhamon intends, and this I think the Queen encourages him to do. Tomorrow he turns eighteen and assumes full power. Will he seize the day to re-establish the heresy?
I say to you, O Amon, your High Priest Hatsuret will not permit it. I say to you that the Regent Aye will not permit it. I say to you that Amon will rule and reign forever, supreme among his fellow gods, bowing to no one, yielding to none, as he is meant to do, through all eternity.
This do I, Hatsuret, who have labored so long and hard to save Kemet from the evil and the unbelieving, pledge to you, O Amon.
I have not hesitated heretofore to bring vengeance in your name.
I shall not hesitate, be it necessary, to do so again.
***
Tutankhamon
(life, health, prosperity!)
Around us the hordes of Amon grow more overweening day by day. It is not enough for dark Hatsuret, that hateful priest, to lord it over the temple at Karnak and parade himself up and down the land in all his pomp and glory. Always he is about the palaces, always he mixes in: suffered and assisted, of course, by my cousin Horemheb, who likes to have him present as threat to me, as I am bondsman (he likes to think) to him.
Well: tomorrow all that changes. All, all changes. Ankesenamon and I have been prisoners for nine years. Tomorrow we will be prisoners no longer.
After our return to Thebes we were forced to resume our humble pose: the conversation we overheard that night outside my uncle’s door terrified us so that for a time we feared constantly for our lives. Indeed, we still do, though after a while apprehension becomes such a burden that it dulls of its own weight. We had to go on living, of course. We had to continue performing the rites and ceremonies and duties that fall upon Pharaoh and the Chief Wife. We could not hide away, though at first we wanted to. We confided our fears immediately to Sitamon and through her intervention were able to secure from her own household guards a few we could trust to attend our progress and safeguard our sleep—in addition, of course, to Ramesses, Sitra and Seti, whose wards, you might say, we have remained: not minding that too much, since they are kind and loyal people. And because he seemed, that night, to be far kinder and fairer than we had thought him to be in recent years—and because Sitamon told us she also believes in his loyal determination to protect our rights and preserve us on the throne against the ambitions of Horemheb—we began cautiously to renew our trust in Aye.
We remembered that he was always a loving uncle to me and a loving grandfather to Ankhesenamon when we were little. We gradually forgave the years after I first came to the throne, when I was still a boy and he seemed to us an eager usurper of powers I was too young to exercise. Maturity brought with it a kindlier view of him. In retrospect he began to seem what we now suspect he has always been: the steady anchor of the House of Thebes, the one unswerving constant through all the troubled times and tempests of my father’s later years and my brothers’ tragic rule.
Concerning Horemheb, we have other ideas. Influenced partly by Sitamon, partly by his actions, but most of all by his really frightening threats to our lives in that dreadful overheard conversation, we have no faith at all in him. Sitamon says, “I believe he began by truly caring for Kemet and wishing to make her great again. I believe he still has this desire. But I also believe he now desires to make Horemheb great along with Kemet. And which of those desires is the greater.…” Her voice trails away and we all reach the same conclusion.
We all mistrust Horemheb. We have mistrusted him ever since the most dreadful night of all, the night he ordered Hatsuret to kill Nefertiti and himself murdered Akhenaten: though we eventually managed to understand how these awful events might have come about through a genuine desire to save the Two Lands from further disaster. But the memory has always made us fearful of him—more so as the years have passed and he has gathered to himself increasing power, which I know he will not yield without a struggle.
Well: I am ready for him now. Tomorrow all changes, and with it Horemheb. Otherwise, I will have his head. I am the Living Horus and after tomorrow none will dare say me nay.
Aye I intend to keep close to my side, however. We have finally returned without reservations to the feeling that in him we have a genuine friend, one whose only desire and ambition really
is
to serve the Two Lands. He will no longer be Regent, of course, and I do not think I will make him Co-Regent, for there is no need for that. It is true that Ankhesenamon has already had one stillborn daughter, not the son we fervently hoped for; but she is pregnant again, scarce two weeks from delivery, and this time, if Aten and the gods agree, the Crown Prince will be born. Someday when he is old enough I will create him Co-Regent. Meanwhile, tomorrow I am eighteen and all power returns to my hands. I shall be very slow and cautious about whom I let it out to hereafter, even to Aye. But we have decided that he will continue to be my most trusted adviser—as counterweight to Horemheb and Hatsuret, and for many more good reasons, principally his own integrity, loyalty and care for our beloved kingdom which is only now, nine years after the death of Nefer-Kheperu-Ra, beginning to recover some semblance of order from his chaotic rule.
There are other things I must do after tomorrow, also. I must see to it that the bodies of the Great Wife, my brother Smenkhkara, Merytaten, Meketaten, Nefertiti and Akhenaten are returned with suitable respect and ceremony to the Valley of the Kings to rest beside our ancestors where they properly belong.
I think of them often, lying in the Royal Wadi at Akhet-Aten: how very lonely they seem, so far away from us in the now deserted city. One thing I have constantly asked Aye and Horemheb to do, and I think Aye in particular has obeyed: make sure that those graves have not been disturbed and that all is safe and secure there. They assure me it is and, having no word to the contrary, I assume they are telling me the truth. But it is time for my family to come home now: the reasons of state that have made my uncle and cousin reluctant to return them here will be canceled when I take full power. I have told Aye this, and he agrees. It is time for the dead to rest easy, even poor Akhenaten, who brought such disaster on us all—
particularly
Akhenaten, who will find in our plans, I think, much with which he might agree.
We feel that he and dearest Nefertiti are watching us from the after-world and supporting us in what we intend to do.
Because, look you: Amon is becoming too great again. He is never content, that one, particularly when his forces are led by such as Hatsuret, that ravenous, ambitious priest. Amon is pushing us again, growing too strong, meddling too much. Once again, like my father and my brothers, I am faced with the greed of Amon. He wants land and he wants gold, much of which Horemheb returned to him in my name years ago when I was too young and helpless to prevent it. But above all he wants power. And while Aye has worked with him reluctantly, and while Horemheb, I am sure, thinks he could work with him completely, I know that I, Neb-Kheperu-Ra Tutankhamon, cannot.
Every time I go to the temple at Karnak it seems to me the messages I exchange with those hooded eyes, gleaming from the golden head in the single ray that illuminates that somber sanctuary, grow more threatening and more hostile. Amon has never been my friend, from the first day I saw him as a child of nine: and he knows well what I think of him, too. Our exchanges, never friendly, are now almost openly hostile, although since I alone face him while the others remain respectfully outside the inmost chamber, they do not know. But
he
knows and
I
know: Amon must be reduced again, before he swallows me up.
There is another reason, too. Amon and the gods have been restored for nine years now, and dutifully and earnestly Ankhesenamon and I have sought to understand them and try to appreciate their role in the life of the Two Lands. And we have concluded this: They are not bringers of happiness and joy to our people. Mostly, they frighten our people. They are simply weapons in the hands of ruthless priests and those, like Horemheb, who use the priests to impose their will upon the kingdom.
We will grant you that some are lovable like Hathor, amiable and wise like Thoth, gravely impressive like Sekhmet, stately and commanding like Horus. But none says, “I am Love. I want to love you and have you love me. I want you—
all of you
—to be free from superstition and fear, happy in our love for one another.”
None says this—save one. And so Ankhesenamon and I find ourselves coming back more and more to the god in whose faith we were reared, the god we are told we must continue to reduce and, ultimately, forget.
But we cannot forget, and him we do not wish to reduce. He is too bright, too happy, too loving—too
comforting.
Comforting, we think, is what we and our people need now, more than anything.
That is why we have preserved his temples in Akhet-Aten, enlarged his temple at Karnak, used as often as we dared his crook and flail and the golden throne emblazoned with his image blessing us. And that is why I think I begin to see in the eyes of Amon lately something of the fear he always tries deliberately to create in others.
That is why it will please me to do what we plan. But it must be done slowly and carefully, step by step. I must not make my brother’s mistakes. I do not think I will, because I do believe he was truly a fanatic and I am not. But that does not make my purpose less firm nor my will less determined.
I shall be careful, I shall be clever, I shall follow the rule of my uncle Aye we have heard him express so often: if change is to succeed in Kemet, it must be gradual.
Gradual I will be, but I will not be deflected. Our minds are made up and we are determined to do it. We have learned craft in our nine years as the prisoners of the Palace. We have also learned tenacity.
Tomorrow we will be prisoners no longer. Things will begin to happen as we wish them to happen. Gradually, Uncle, as you recommend: but inexorably, nonetheless.
***