A God Against the Gods (16 page)

Amonhotep,
Son of Hapu

I do not know what we have created here; but as I stand beside the Queen Mother, her tiny, wizened figure bundled against the cold beneath her gorgeous robes, and hear the swelling shout move south along the river from Malkata, I can only pray that it will be for the good of Kemet and this House.

Presently they will arrive and Mutemwiya and I will take our proper places in the procession, she following after her son and the Great Wife, who in turn will be preceded by the Crown Prince and Nefertiti, I to join Aye and his wife Tey in the file just behind. So far have I come in fifteen years: now I am the highest councilor next to Aye, and to me Pharaoh entrusts his architecture and construction work, his records, his planning for monuments and campaigns—although this last is only on papyrus, for it is quite unlikely that he will ever be able to take the field again. There are many officials under me throughout Kemet and the Empire. I oversee all and it is my charge to make sure all records and details are well kept and to move forward all things expeditiously. I am so important that Pharaoh has already decreed a mortuary temple in my honor on the west bank near his own. Thus far have I come.

In addition, I give advice when it is sought, which is frequently; and in these recent years have been entrusted with my greatest responsibility of all, the formal schooling of the two children.

I have been responsible for all the details of their plans, schedules, studies, programs. This has been my particular charge, as it is my particular skill. But I have other skills: I think, I study, I expound, I philosophize. In such subtle areas does education truly lie, between pupil and teacher. I think I can say to my credit that I have done my best to influence these two avid young minds in the ways that will be best for Kemet.

In this, of course, I have not been alone: everyone in and around the Family has had a hand in it, all being aware of how vitally important it is that they be truly equipped to rule. Each of us, in a sense, has been both co-operating and contending for these two minds. And yet sometimes I wonder if any of us has made an impression, if any of us really holds the key to what goes on inside these unique youngsters, he unique in intelligence combined with ugliness, she in intelligence combined with beauty.

They are difficult—difficult. Enigmatic and obscure. Given to playful moods, she in particular, when she so dazzles with challenge, assertion, questioning, conjecture, that one cannot keep up. He is more silent but equally blunt, disconcerting, elusive—when he chooses to speak. This he does not always do, leaving to others (principally to her, who so often speaks for him) the burden of discourse, maintaining a silence speculative, skeptical—unnerving. He used to be so open: now he is so closed. Such, sadly, is the legacy of illness. That, and possibly much more that we do not dream about—dare not dream about. (They seem above all to be skeptical of the gods, though with me they express it in a way so jocular, light and sportive that I am unable to divine how sincere they are or how deep it goes.)

I know Aye in particular is worried, though he will not tell me why. Kaires is uneasy, I am uneasy, Pharaoh and the Great Wife are uneasy, even Mutemwiya who huddles beside me in the chill of wind off the Nile is uneasy. “What does he intend to do?” she asks me plaintively from time to time, as if I knew. “What are those two up to?”

How do I know? I guess, but I keep my guesses to myself and pray that I am mistaken; for if I am not, then somewhere, somehow, among us all we have done something terribly wrong in our handling of this strange boy and his dazzling love.…

Kaires comes up now, removes his helmet, salutes me smartly, bows low to kiss the Queen Mother’s hand. She slips it quickly away before he can rise to his full height again and gives him a fond maternal pat on his shaven skull. He responds with his amiable, easy smile before he slips the helmet back on. Then he turns, surveys the scurrying priests and the soldiers lounging at ease, and shivers slightly.

“It is
cold
,”
he says. “Ra does not smile upon these proceedings.”

“He does above the clouds,” I say quickly, seeking to lighten what seems his gloomy mood. “He rides the Barque of Millions of Years through the skies as always. He will come out in due course to bless us. You will see.”

“Oh, I am not really worried,” he says, more confidently. “I believe this will be a great day for Kemet.”

“Do you?” Mutemwiya inquires with a sudden moody glance. “Why?”

“Because I believe in the Crown Prince,” he says firmly and I perceive that he has finally resolved his doubts in the boy’s favor. “And I believe in Nefertiti. I believe they will be good for Kemet, now that Pharaoh is—” He pauses, realizing he is on ground of some delicacy with Pharaoh’s mother.

“Ill,” she says matter-of-factly. “But is not my grandson ill too?”

“He has
been
ill,” Kaires says respectfully but emphatically. “Now he is well again and ready to be a good Co-Regent and Pharaoh for Kemet.”

“You call what he is ‘well’?” the Queen Mother inquires, and in spite of her tart tone, a sudden profound sadness touches her weathered face, rouged and painted even more heavily than usual for the occasion.

“He is not as other men,” Kaires grants, “but I believe in his heart he is well, and able to do great things for us all.”

“He is not strong,” Mutemwiya reminds him.

“But he is not sickly,” Kaires replies, daring as few do to argue with this old lady who has befriended him, as have the rest of us, so long and so well. “He has great strength of will. It compensates for much.”

“Strength of will for what purpose?” she inquires, still moodily, as now, up the river, the rolling wave of welcome comes ever nearer and stronger. She places a hand on Kaires’ chest and gives him a little poke for emphasis. “Do
you
know? Do
I
know? Does Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, know? Does
anyone
really
know
?”

“Pharaoh and the Great Wife must be satisfied, Majesty,” I interject as Kaires looks momentarily at a loss, “else they would not be making the Crown Prince Co-Regent this day. Is that not true?”

“Satisfied to be relieved of burdens and worries—they hope,” Mutemwiya agrees. “Satisfied about other things …” Her voice trails away and she gives a heavy sigh. “I do not know.… We do not know.
They
do not know.…”

“Excuse me, Majesty,” Kaires says formally, “but I think they come and I must go to command the troops as they take their stations.”

“Good boy,” she calls after him as he again bows low, smiles and hurries away. “Sometimes I wish …” But again her voice trails away and she only looks at me with the sadness once more upon her. I dare to nod with suitable gravity, and although she turns away without comment while her face assumes its ceremonial expression, I know we understand each other.

So do I wish that such a one as Kaires were to be Co-Regent instead of the Crown Prince. It is a fantastic thought, for I believe—though his background is still a mystery and all my diligent spies have been unable to uncover it—that he is illegitimate and not of us. And I do not believe—although there have sometimes been startling surprises in the way he has risen so rapidly in Pharaoh’s service—that he carries any royal blood, or is in any remotest way involved in the line of succession. Yet he is a vital lad, of great force, intelligence and ability, already on his way to become one of the great leaders of Kemet. It is only the contrast that makes the Queen Mother and me entertain our fleeting, futile thought. The contrast … and the wistful feeling that if only somehow—
somehow
—things could be different than they are on this fateful day.

But they are not. She knows it, I know it, and quickly I follow her lead in making my face suitably formal as we prepare to step from the tent and stand looking up the Nile, over the heads of the enormous crowds along the shore, to see the flotilla come. The gods have given us this strange boy, we have all done our best with him, and now all we can do is await events and pray to the gods who gave him to us that they will keep his feet firmly on the path he must travel if Kemet is to be truly served. This is no time for adventures, either for the land or for his House. We pray that both children fully understand this.

Now the shout is upon us. It grows, expands, explodes: the first golden ship has touched the royal landing at Luxor. From it there descends, with a slowness enforced by his ailment (which mercifully adds only dignity to his progress), an awkward golden figure topped by the ancient, towering Double Crown of the Two Kingdoms. The figure is visible in its awkwardness only a moment. Kaires’ honor guard steps forward and surrounds him, clustering priests converge amid the joyous, shattering tumult. A second later he is seated on a canopied golden throne resting on two long poles of cedar. Eight sturdy young soldiers seize the poles and in one swift, disciplined motion hoist him high above the crowd, where he sits triumphant, his expression solemn but not unkindly, his head turning slowly from left to right as he acknowledges the roar of greeting. Mutemwiya and I look at one another with secret glances of relief. The first step has been successfully taken: the greeting is of love.

Now comes the second golden ship, and the tumult, if possible, grows louder. She is wearing the distinctive cone-like blue crown which she devised herself two years ago, and she has never looked more beautiful, more serene or more certain of herself. Already on that lovely face there rests the promise of a growing maturity, a deepening wisdom, a sure and unshakable intelligence. The wise and levelheaded ruler is already present in the sweet, excited girl. Her mother Hebmet was right: A Beautiful Woman Has Come, indeed

She too is hoisted high in her own golden baldachin behind his, and for a moment a gasp of sheer astonishment and adoration replaces the universal shout. She is overwhelming in her beauty.

We can see him lean down to Kaires, who walks on his right hand beside the throne. Kaires shouts an order, the sturdy soldiers slowly turn his baldachin until it faces hers, and as their eyes meet they smile at one another with a look that is like a flame, so intense, so complete, so enveloping—so
enclosed
—does it appear to us who watch. A cry of sheer delight wells up from the crowd as the soldiers again slowly turn his throne facing forward and move it a few paces ahead so that hers may fall in line behind it. On both their faces, now, there shines a great content, which imparts itself to all and quiets, for a little time, the doubts and worries that haunt those of us who know them best

Now comes the third golden ship, the biggest and the brightest, and again the welcome roars, filled this time with many things, loyalty, adoration, worship, respect—and a certain anxious tenderness. He has ruled over Kemet, now, for almost twenty-seven years, they know he is ailing, they love him, and it worries them. Today he appears to be feeling reasonably well: his face is solemn yet kindly, its formal smile of benediction fixed yet filled with an answering tenderness. Beside him the Great Wife wears the same expression. She cannot refrain, now and then, from a quick, sidelong glance of worry and appraisal, and this is not lost upon the multitude. They love to see felicity in the royal household, they murmur to one another, “The Great Wife is a
good
wife.” And so she is, and a great ruler, too.

They are transferred in turn to the twin canopied thrones they share together. This time sixteen soldiers perform the smooth, quick-flowing operation and suddenly there they are above us, as in our minds and hearts they have always been. Power will be divided and shared from this day forward, but in certain ways Pharaoh and the Great Wife will always have a hold upon the people which someday, if the two children are lucky, may be equaled but can never be surpassed: Kemet has known them both so long and so well.

Now the Queen Mother leaves me and moves forward, to be greeted by yet another detachment of Kaires’ troops, who escort her, to the accompaniment of another affectionate shout, to her own small golden throne and lift her high. Then in quick order come Sitamon, now a lovely and dignified figure in the fullness of womanhood, and towering Gilukhipa, aging but still as shrewd as ever. They too are hoisted quickly to their thrones, and now begins that part of the procession that will move on foot. Aye comes, grave and commanding as always, accompanied by Tey. I move in beside them as we bow to one another and exchange quick, friendly smiles before our faces assume their ceremonial solemnities. We, too, receive our share of greeting, as do Ramose, Su-rero the chief steward to Pharaoh, Mahu, the chief of police of Thebes, Kheru-ef, steward to Queen Tiye, and the rest

So presently we are all in line, and waiting; and presently we find that we are still waiting. The procession does not move forward, and for a very simple reason. The priest Aanen, who jealously guards these portals and on this occasion has chosen to remain behind them rather than ride with the Family as he often does, has not yet come forward to formally welcome us within.

Can this be deliberate, or is it simply some hitch in ceremony for which someone, probably not in the least responsible, will be punished later, so that all may save face?

It is obvious that the crowd, which murmurs now impatiently but amiably, thinks the latter. It is also obvious, from the suddenly withdrawn look on the face of the Crown Prince, the little frown that creases Nefertiti’s brow, and the fixed congealment that is beginning to settle on the faces of Pharaoh and the Great Wife, that the royal party has a different idea.

For several awkward minutes the impasse lasts. The crowd begins a puzzled, sibilant whispering. Pharaoh appears about to look around for someone to give an order to, when the matter is abruptly taken from his hands. A high, shrill voice, filled with imperious anger, rings out loudly. An instant silence falls on the world, caused more perhaps by his tone than by his words, which themselves are harsh enough:

“The Priest Aanen will open the gates and admit the Good Gods and the Great Wives and all their party or we shall have his head!”