A God Against the Gods (31 page)

Akhenaten
(life, health, prosperity!)

There is a small window, concealed by golden draperies, just at the beginning of the arch that leads from my private apartments to the Window of Appearances. Here I often stand for a few moments before we go out, so that I may estimate the size of the crowd and gauge its mood.

Normally it is not as numerous as I would like, though I have long ago grown used to that: for one thing, the street is narrow and cannot accommodate too many, and for another, they just don’t come. And usually the mood, which the Family and the Court assure me (I do not know why they still pretend to me: I do not pretend to myself) is wildly welcoming, is far more often one of dutiful boredom, laced now and again with a sly and almost evil curiosity. It as though they were saying to one another, as indeed I expect they are, “What is Horse Face up to now? What crazy ‘wonder’ will he offer us today?”

These are, of course, my subjects among the common folk. The members of the Court have a much more specific curiosity.

“Whom will he honor today? Who gets the gold pectorals and bracelets this time? What lucky soul will go home luckier still, his hands burdened down with the jewels our odd King flings down so carelessly from his window? Will it be you? Me? Or that completely unworthy and worthless one over there?”

It draws them like flies. I can always be assured of a basic audience. The hopefuls are always here.

Today I am at my secret aperture a little early, for Smenkhkara, overcoming his tearful spell—which disturbed me, for I do not know the reason and he would not tell me—has dressed me quickly and efficiently and gone to his palace to change to his own ceremonial garb. It gives me a little time to read over what I intend to say (the heart of it in my own hand, as I have written and rewritten it to perfection over many days and weeks) and to prepare myself for the ordeal of appearing in public.

For it is an ordeal still, though they know it not.

I still do not like to be watched, to be studied, to be made fun of; and all of these, of course, occur. I suppose I shall never get used to it, though I have ruled for a decade, had six daughters—seven—and been on almost constant public display all my life, saving the dark period of my ailment. I am King, Pharaoh, Good God, Living Horus—and I am also an object. I will never really enjoy it, Father Aten, even with your help. Never.

Yet, of course, it must be done; and today it must be done, as I am doing it, with an extra pomp and splendor.

Today they must take notice.

And they will, for today I have much for them.

There is firstly the news of Kaires, which will give him new stature and raise him to new power and dignity at my right hand. I believe this to be best for me and best for Kemet. It is also best for him. I am trusting that he will be grateful and will not betray me. My “big brother” has always been a constant in my life and I expect him to continue. My mother, I know, considers it something of a gamble. But Nefertiti agrees with me, and although we are not now quite the single heart and single breath we have been all our lives, I still trust her judgment in many things.

I try to reflect at times—you know, Father Aten, how often I have discussed this with you—upon the reasons for the subtly growing rift that has come between us, but I usually wind up baffled. I thought at first it might be my union with Merytaten, though to me—and I think to my daughter, though she never said and I am not sure—it was a perfectly natural attempt to secure for myself a son and so pass on the blood of Ra in direct line from myself to the Double Crown. That the child was born sickly and soon died did not disturb me unduly, for it was simply the failure of a purpose that can be duplicated easily, though not, I am afraid, with Merytaten, who appears to have been injured in some way. Now, if it had been a son I had lost, I should have been seriously upset. As it was, it was forgotten in a day—by me, at least, though not, perhaps, by either my wife or my daughter.

Merytaten is a fierce and ambitious little girl. I feel she resents me now, yet in some curious way I think she resents her mother even more. I once overheard her cry out bitterly, “Why did you let him—” But then they heard me shuffling along the corridor. Voices were abruptly hushed. When I entered the room they were placidly knitting and chatting of innocuous things.

It was, in any event, a stupid question.

It was not a matter of anyone “letting” me.

How could anyone stop me?

Nor, when it comes to that, as presently it will, can anyone stop me with Meketaten, or if that fails with Ankhesenpaaten, or with Nefer-Neferu-Aten Junior, or with Nefer-Neferu-Ra or with Set-e-pen-ra, if it comes to that. They are all my daughters, I am their father, I do it only with love in my heart, for them, for our House and for Kemet—and above all, for you, Father Aten—and I know they understand this.

So I do not worry.

Nonetheless, I think it may have had some effect upon Nefertiti. I sense a withdrawal, slight but inescapable. Now she wants her own palace and I have ordered it for her. Yet surely she has no just cause for complaint. I have tried six times to have a son with her and six times she has failed me. I am not going to banish her, as some of my fellow monarchs in other less progressive and enlightened lands might do in such a circumstance. She will always be my Chief Wife, Queen of the Two Lands, my first and still … I think … my only love. What excuse does she have to be upset?

I have, as I say, puzzled over it many times. The only thing I have been able to conclude is that she did not like the secrecy of it. She must have felt that this was in some way degrading, that if whispers of it got about the people would consider that I had done it against her will and over her protest—that for the first time we were not in agreement on an act of major policy—that for the first time, we were not living in truth.

She should be pleased, then, with what I have to say on that subject today.

Not today, but in due course, I shall also live in truth about the other matter which I suspect upsets her; though that I shall discuss privately but directly with her first, as befits her dignity as Chief Wife and Queen of the Two Lands. I believe she will understand, knowing that she is still first in my heart and that the one who has come to dwell there now holds a place that may perhaps sometime equal, but can never surpass, her own. I do not think she will begrudge me that. I do not see logically how she can.

It is not as though my younger brother were a stranger to me or to this House. It is not as though he were an ignorant peasant or a bored soldier or a dirty street boy. He, too, is of the blood of Ra; and his is a disposition so carefree and outgoing, a nature so decent and kind, and a physical presence so perfect, that it seems to me only fitting that he should become the beloved of the Good God—for in him the Good God sees himself, not as he is now but as he once was. And so in him I love myself.

Thus was I, before my illness struck. Thus was I, before horror came and my world turned upside down. Thus was I, before I became monster, grotesque, “Horse Face” and all the other bitter things my people call me—and which, in moments of darkest despair, I call myself.

Smenkhkara is myself as I was and as I would have been, had the gods who chose to betray me permitted. He laughs for me, he runs for me, he leaps for me, he is beautiful for me. He
is
me. I
am
he. In him I see myself, youthful and perfect and golden and beloved by all, as I might have been—as I
should
have been, but for the gods. I hunger for that perfection, which now I shall never have, as I hunger for sons, which also I may never have. And so I intend to take him to myself, hoping that in such a union Akhenaten may find what he has never found but always seeks: happiness, at last, and peace of mind.

Is this too much for a god to ask? It is not denied the simplest peasant in my realm. There is scarcely a one who is not happy in his simple life, who does not sing and joke as he goes cheerfully about his work in the fields. There is scarcely a slave in my household, or in any noble house, who does not have, if not perfect happiness, at least far more than I. There is not an artisan, laboring over his scarabs or his sculptures or his paintings, who does not exceed me in contentment. From the Delta to the Fourth Cataract, I am surrounded by happy people. It is only their King who is denied this. In the youth who is myself as I was meant to be, I intend to find it, if I can.

In this I mean no slight or hurt to Nefertiti, though I am afraid that already, even before the fact, she is choosing to take it so. It is no reflection on her that she is not the mirror image of what I should have been. This is something aside from, and beyond, the love she and I have always had for one another from our earliest days. She has been my constant companion, my beloved wife, my faithful supporter in my worship of you, Father Aten. She has not given me sons, though she has tried; it is not her fault that the gods, vindictive toward me still, should have remained adamant on that. Even you, Father Aten, have not been strong enough to overcome the other gods—yet. But you will.

You will.

And so I must discuss this with Nefertiti very soon, for very soon—probably tonight—I intend that it will happen. I know she will understand. She loves me. I love her. And we both love and trust in you, Father Aten. How, therefore, can there be friction?

Bless my union with Smenkhkara, Father Aten. Keep strong my union with Nefertiti. Make fruitful with sons my unions with my daughters. Permit Akhenaten, your son, to find his happiness, which he has never had in twenty-five years upon this earth. Help him in this, Father Aten, and he will continue to glorify and strengthen you in all things.

On this he gives the word of your fellow god, a King and Pharaoh of the Two Lands, living in truth forever and ever, for millions and millions of years.…

Now the murmur and bustle of the crowd are growing very loud outside. I peek through the draperies, as behind me in the room I hear Nefertiti, our daughters, my parents, Smenkhkara, Aye, Kaires and Sitamon enter. It is time for us to appear. I turn and gesture to them all with a welcoming smile which they all return, somewhat uncertainly—they, too, are not sure what wonders “Horse Face” has in store for them today. I adjust the Double Crown more firmly on my head, take a deep breath, give a sign. The servants pull back the draperies, I shuffle slowly forward to face the multitude, the others follow and group themselves around me, Nefertiti at my side, my parents flanking us, the rest in line behind them,

A dutiful shout goes up, to be followed instantly by an abrupt and rustling silence. I step forward to the balcony’s edge, again take a deep breath, and begin to speak, not too fast, not too choked with emotion: clearly, I think, and in a lucid voice which I must maintain, Father Aten, most particularly when I come to you.

But first there is Kaires.

“Good people of Kemet!” I cry, and even the rustling ceases as their massed faces, hundreds and hundreds of little brown dots, turn up to me as to the Sun—which for them indeed I am. “I have called you here this day to hear pronouncements concerning my Court and concerning the God Aten. I shall tell you of my Court first.”

I can sense the sharp increase in their interest, especially among those who actually work in the Court. Who will get the baubles? They will be surprised and disappointed. The greedy will not be rewarded today: only the truly faithful.

“You all know,” I go on, almost conversationally as I have their rapt attention, “how long and well my dear servant Kaires has assisted me. As a man, yea, even as a child, has he assisted Akhenaten. In all things has he assisted Akhenaten. For this we bear him great love.

“As you all know, Kaires came to join our royal House and serve Akhenaten from a secret place, many years ago. He is the son of a great figure of our Court, who has never revealed this fact. Today he has decided to do so. I present to you the Private Secretary and King’s Councilor Aye.”

And as they gasp and murmur and exclaim, I turn to my uncle Aye and gesture him forward beside me. He comes and stands, stares out upon the multitude with all his great and unassailable calm and dignity. Silence and rapt attention return.

“Good people of Kemet,” he says, and his strong voice carries to the farthest reaches of the street and all the nearby buildings, where even on the roofs the curious stand tightly packed to hear our proceedings, “it gives me infinite happiness to recognize before you all, at last, my dear son Kaires, older brother to the Queen Nefer-Neferu-Aten”—the crowd gasps, and behind me I hear the Family gasp, too, Sitamon and Nefertiti louder than the rest—“to the General Nakht-Min and to the Lady Mut-nedj-met. Come, my son—” and for once my unshakable uncle shows some public sign of emotion as he turns and gestures Kaires forward. Tears roll down his cheeks as he embraces his son, and tears are in the eyes of Kaires, too, and of all of us.

A great, happy, approving shout goes up. Quietly my uncle steps back. Kaires, his face working with emotion, remains beside me.

“Thus do we welcome you to our House,” I say gravely, and leaning forward, give him the kiss of ceremony on both cheeks. “Thus do we declare you a legitimate and ever valued member of our royal Family. And further do I say to you this, my faithful servant and cousin, and to all these good people of Kemet assembled here:

“From this day forward you shall be known as, and shall have all the rights and duties of, the King’s Scribe, the King’s Steward, Master of Works and Commander of the Troops of the King. And to honor your now fully recognized position as Cousin and Member of our House, and to symbolize your new duties and authorities and the new era of your life upon which you now enter in our House and in our service, I am pleased to confer upon you forever and ever the new name you have chosen for yourself:

“Hail to you, Horemheb!”

And I gesture commandingly to the crowd, and as one great voice it follows me as I chant solemnly:

“Hail to you, Horemheb!

“Hail to you, Horemheb, King’s Scribe, Steward, Master of Works, Commander of the King’s Troops! Hail, Horemheb, for millions and millions of years!”