Return to Thebes (7 page)

Aye

My sister thinks it time, my son thinks it time, I think it time, Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, though he confides nothing direct to any of us about it, indicates the same. We do not know what my daughter Nefertiti thinks but tonight we intend to find out. Then, perhaps, will indeed come the time—to act.

Yet what do I contemplate when I say “the time to act”?

My mind shudders away from it.

We say we are talking about two carvings in two minor tombs of the pathetic coronation durbar and what they should represent to posterity. In reality we are talking of something else.

Behind them lies the face of death.

So far we have come along the road with Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and his bemused and fatefully willing brother … my two little nephews, who so short a while ago laughed and tumbled at my feet! Of
them
I use the word “death!” May Amon and Aten and all the gods forgive me the thought … and may they understand, in horror and compassion, why it is that Aye, Private Secretary, Councilor, Divine Father-in-law, must now face the fact that for him, as for others, it is a thought that can no longer be put aside.

It is not enough to catalogue the wasting of temples, the withering of empire, the corruption of the land. It is not enough to talk of gods destroyed, of brothers shameless in public spectacle, of old ways thwarted and traditions upside down. It is more than that. It is
ma’at, the fitness of things
in all its aspects, that Akhenaten destroys with what he does.… It is this he destroys now simply by continuing to exist, simply by continuing to be the living symbol of all that he has done against
ma’at
and the safety and preservation of the Two Lands.

I have tried for a very long time to follow him, rationalizing much, excusing much, justifying much. When he asked me to stand at his right hand years ago as assistant high priest of the Aten, I did so, thinking I could thereby modify and guide and in some measure control his course. When I publicly recognized my son Horemheb and advised him to accept the honors and responsibilities his cousin desired to heap upon him, I did so in the thought, which Horemheb shared, that this too would be a modifying, guiding and controlling influence.

It has not proven so, in either case. Were it not that Kemet long ago came to respect and revere my integrity and intelligence—not giving me love, but giving me something I value more because in my mind it is more important, namely respect—I should now myself be suffering the secret grumblings, the growing fear and hatred that surround Pharaoh in the minds of his people. Were it not that Horemheb, too, has been universally respected and admired for his diligence, his loyalty, his great shrewdness and his obvious deep love for Kemet, he would be suffering in the same way.

Fortunately we have been able to escape opprobrium, retaining both the people’s confidence and Pharaoh’s, and it is this which not only gives us the opportunity but imposes upon us the obligation to assist in whatever is decided tonight. We will, in fact, assist in the deciding itself, for we are come now to the moment when all must be decided so that Kemet may be reborn and go on in the eternal glory that is rightfully hers.

We have wasted too much time: the Two Lands have drifted too far. Now, very late, we must pull them back.

In this enterprise my sister is the guiding force, as she has been the guiding force in so many things for the good of Kemet for so many years. I doubt if even now, confronted though we are by so many failures and misdeeds of Akhenaten, we should dare to even think of deposing him were it not for his mother’s indomitable character and implacable will. I can only imagine the endless hours, days, nights of torment she must have gone through these past three years to reach the point she has: for she was always a loving mother, and she, too, has traveled far, very far, with Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and Ankh-Kheperu-Ra before coming at last to the conclusion I think she has: that, for the good of Kemet, they must go.

What form this will take we do not know—do not dare express as yet, though I think tonight we will.

Possibly the gods will come to our aid and it will happen naturally, for Akhenaten is not well, that is obvious to all. He seems to be suffering not so much a sickness of the body, though of course he has never been really strong since his illness, as a sickness of the spirit. He is listless, more erratic, more uncaring. With it comes a sharper tongue, an inward-turning sarcasm, a more savage bitterness—when he rouses sufficiently to respond at all.

Much of the time he stays alone and broods; now and again he calls me or Horemheb or my younger son, Nahkt-Min, whom he has now appointed vizier, to his side for halfhearted discussions of policy and government. More often he goes to worship the Aten with Smenkhkara and then they retreat to his favorite aerie, the ledge along the Northern Tombs overlooking the city and plain. At regular intervals Smenkhkara—I will say for him that he takes his “duties of government” with an almost touching earnestness and sincerity—travels upriver to Thebes or down to Memphis, makes his appearances at those two secondary and now half-deserted capitals, performs the ceremonies of the Aten and transmits a few desultory “orders” from his brother, so vaguely phrased that only ancient habits of obedience bring them even a semblance of response. “That canal for His Majesty’s commerce near the oasis of the Fayum might be deepened,” perhaps. Or, “It might be that an expedition to the western desert would find items pleasing to His Majesty.”

Not—the canal
must
be deepened, you see. Not—an expedition
will
go and it
will
find
thus, thus
and
thus
for His Majesty. It is all a half-formed hint, a delicate, weary suggestion—almost, if you will, a dying suggestion.

This is not how Pharaohs get things done.

It is only in the realm of his religion and his household, unfortunately, that he still remains vigorous and demanding. The temples of the Aten flourish, though they have few worshipers. The wealth of Amon and the rest flow into their coffers, and from there directly into his. The compromise I once suggested—that the wealth and priesthoods of the two great gods be equally divided—vanished with the blaze of rage in which he destroyed Amon at Thebes on the day of his father’s entombment. It was not a very good compromise, probably, but at least for a year or two it did what I had hoped, prevented open conflict, preserved a semblance of uneasy peace between the two, re-established a little the mystique of Pharaoh as the impartial father of the land. But he was never impartial, really. Too long ago he became the slave of the Aten. And now he permits no other god to reign in the Two Lands, as he permits no other god than likable, amiable, stupidly easygoing Ankh-Kheperu-Ra to reign in his heart.

Is it any wonder we of the Family feel so torn about them both? Akhenaten has a great residue of love and pity to draw upon in our hearts, for he was so perfect a youth and became so pathetic and unhappy a man. Smenkhkara has always been everyone’s favorite, because of his own sweet nature and because the blessings the gods gave him were never taken away. In many ways he is a replica of his father, tolerant, friendly, outgoing, lovable.

I have sometimes thought it, never dared speak it even to myself, but now I do: it is a pity the terrible illness did not take Akhenaten and leave us Smenkhkara to succeed to the Double Crown. There would have been no problems with Amon, no problems of personal relationship, no problems of any kind. He would have married, had sons, done his duty; he might even have taken to the field and restored the Empire, for he has his venturesome streak and sometimes talks longingly of the campaigns he would like to go on if only his brother were not too jealous of his safety to permit it. He would have been good, kind, reliable, dull: just one more greatly popular, greatly respected, greatly loved Pharaoh, easily managed and easily controlled, taking his place in the eternal unchanging parade of Kemet’s rulers.

Instead came Akhenaten.…

And here we are.

I do not know exactly what my sister has in mind for this evening, but I think in the family council that will be held before we confront the two Kings the basic question will have to be put: are they to be removed, and if so, how and by whom?

I know that in the King’s House there are two instruments, once the decision has been reached. Hatsuret waits, carrying in his heart Amon’s burning desire for vengeance. And at the right hand of His Majesty stands my son Horemheb, whose ambition at last is beginning to frighten me, so boundless does it appear to be despite his outward dissemblings.

It is not often that Sitamon and I make occasion to speak on an intimate basis: she is a good niece, I am a good uncle, our friendship is always amicable, we leave it at that. It is seldom she seeks me out for counsel or advice. Two weeks ago she did, however, telling me of her strange little exchange with Horemheb, which she thought—and I agree with her—revealed his desire to be Pharaoh. Yet how can he be Pharaoh? The line of succession is firm and clear, going straight to solemn little Tut, more uneasy every day as he senses the concern of his elders increasing about him.

“Uncle,” he said to me just yesterday, when I was visiting the North Palace—climbing up on my lap as he used to do, which is no longer quite so easy, as he is growing rapidly heavier and I am in my sixty-fifth year—“must I be Pharaoh very soon, when Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and Ankh-Kheperu-Ra die?”

For a moment I was so taken aback by this childish candor on a subject his elders have never yet expressed aloud to one another that I am afraid I must have looked a little foolish.

“They are going to die, aren’t they?” he repeated with a bright insistence that suddenly frightened me so that I instinctively clapped a hand over his mouth. His startled eyes stared at me with such terror that I knew I must drop my hand instantly and hug him protectively to my chest.

“You must never, never,
never
say such things, Nephew,” I said, managing with great effort to make my voice calm and soothing to stop the trembling of his body and the surprised and terrified little noises that were beginning to whimper from his throat. “Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and Ankh-Kheperu-Ra are the Kings of the Two Lands. They are well and no one wishes them ill. Someday far, far off when you are a grown man and are married and have a family”—a thought I try to instill in him every chance I get, since we do not want any repetitions of what is going on now—“it may be that the god will call them to the Western Peak—”

“Which god?” he demanded. “The Aten or Amon?”

“Perhaps both,” I said soothingly.

“I should like the Aten,” he said with a surprising firmness that brought a sudden terror to
my
heart.
That
repetition I had not foreseen. But he is only eight, and no doubt will presently forget it, and so I made my tone again deliberately hearty and comforting.

“Perhaps the Aten, perhaps Amon, perhaps both,” I said with a studied indifference. “One does not know what the future holds, except that, as you truly say, you will indeed be Pharaoh when Nefer-Kheperu-Ra and Ankh-Kheperu-Ra are no longer on this earth. But that will be many, many years from now, and you must never discuss it with anyone, ever again. It does not become one who will one day be Pharaoh that he should gossip thus about his brothers.”

This did what I intended it to do. He straightened up abruptly and slid off my lap, standing straight as a little soldier at my elbow.

“The Pharaoh Tutankhaten,” he said solemnly, “will never gossip about his brothers to anyone again.”

“That is good,” I said with equal solemnity. “Have I the word of a Son of the Sun on that?”

“You have the word of a Son of the Sun,” he said, still with great solemnity. Then he gave a sudden sad sigh and became a little boy again. “But, Uncle, I
do
wish we could all be happy together in the Family as we used to be.”

“So do I, Nephew,” I said, meeting the honesty in his eyes with honesty in mine. “But until the god—or gods—allows us to be so, we must all be strong and brave and show the world nothing and say nothing about it, not even to one another. Do you not agree?”

“I agree,” he said, sounding much too old and tired for eight. “But I
do
wish it so.”

“Come,” I said then, rising and taking him by the hand. “Let us go and look at the lion captured last week in the Fayum. They tell me he has a marvelous growl that says, ‘Tut-ankh-AAATTTEN! Tut-ankh-AAATTTEN!’”

“
Uncle,
”
he said, breaking into the sunny smile we do not see very often of late, “that’s
silly.
But let us go anyway and see him.”

And so we did, and the subject, I hoped, was forgotten; though I am very much afraid it was not, for I saw him just this morning being taken in his chariot to the House of the Aten to do worship, and the look he gave me was once again knowing and troubled and far too old for eight.

How Horemheb can contemplate that he will ever become Pharaoh under these circumstances, I cannot for the life of me see. It is as absurd as though I myself were to entertain such a thought. The succession is established and preordained. What we must all be thinking about now is how to bring it about as rapidly as possible, with as little disturbance to Kemet and with (I still hope with all my heart) as little hurt as possible to Akhenaten and Smenkhkara.

There is a possibility—a very remote chance—that they might be persuaded to leave the throne. No Pharaoh has ever done such a thing—voluntarily—in all our history. But I am not talking of voluntarily. Perhaps we can trade them the throne for retirement together here, suitably housed, suitably honored, remaining as guardians of the Aten in the Aten’s city, while Tut returns to Thebes to re-establish Amon and restore the
ma’at
and power of the Two Lands—

But what nonsense am I talking?

Smenkhkara the easygoing lover of ease and luxury might agree. But embittered and unyielding Akhenaten?

Never.

What ever persuaded Aye, who has seen so much of tragedy and unhappiness in the House of Thebes (and I am afraid will yet see more), to entertain for even a moment such blithering thoughts!