Return to Thebes (16 page)

Reassembled in their positions around the pool, these child-men, in what I now felt more contemptuously than ever to be their child-masks, poured water over me from four golden jars. This water—which (I thought as before) up to Akhenaten’s death eight days ago had been only water—now was presumed to splash the divinity of the gods upon me. Why this was necessary, since I am divine by birth, I did not understand; but having now resolved to see it through as befitted the Pharaoh I intended to be, I submitted quietly.

I was then led on to two chapels between the second and third pylons, one representing the “House of Flame,” the ancient northern sanctuary of Amon, the other the “Great House,” or ancient southern sanctuary. In the first were more priests, more masks: Horus, Neith, Isis, Buto of Lower Kemet, Nekhebet of Upper Kemet, Nephthys and many others (most of whose names I learned later: they were, as I say, mostly new to me) chanting my solemn praises. Noisily they accompanied me forward to the second chapel, pausing in its doorway as I went within.

A priestess representing Amon’s daughter, the snake goddess, loomed out of the shadowy interior, around her head a great linen cobra’s hood held stiff by bands of gold. Before I knew what she was doing she had enveloped my body with hers. Her bosom was suffocating and her perfume overpowering. I almost gagged from the strength of it but managed to distract my throat by pretending to cough. This stinking embrace was supposed to represent my being acknowledged as the heir to the throne—Amon’s hidden hand supposedly guiding his daughter’s hood to rise behind my head. To me it was simply being crushed by an offensively smelly woman. But I had made up my mind, and accepted it solemnly.

Next came a priest named (I learned later) Inmutef, accompanied by other priests, each bearing one of the crowns of Kemet (recovered from my brother’s palace at Akhet-Aten, I learned later: he had not quite dared destroy these ancient symbols). Quickly they were placed in turn upon my head and as quickly removed—the combined white miter and red mortar-cap that represent the Double Crown of the two goddesses Buto and Nekhebet, meaning the Two Lands, Kemet itself; the
atef
crown of Ra, the
seshed
headband, the ibis crown of Thoth, the blue leather
khepresh
crown, the diadem of two tall plumes similar to those worn by Amon, and the great golden wig, its flaps resting on my chest. Then the khepresh was returned to my head and I was led on through the third pylon to another shadowy chapel (it is as my brother said: Amon is always cold, hidden and unhealthy) where I knelt before a rose granite shrine originally dedicated by my great-great-grandfather Tuthmose III (life, health, prosperity!). There in ringing tones from behind me Hatsuret announced that Amon had confirmed my wearing of the khepresh and henceforth I had sway over all the dominions of the sun. To prove this, he announced, I would feel the hand of Amon touch my neck. A cold hand immediately did, making me jump with its iciness.

I knew it was the hand of Amon, all right: the hand of Amon that had killed my brother Smenkhkara, my niece Merytaten and my dear cousin Nefertiti. But with great effort I managed to show none of the awful revulsion that withered my body at his touch, and all in attendance breathed a sigh of satisfaction as I rose again to my feet.

There followed the conferring of all my titularies and names, including my coronation name of Neb-Kheperu-Ra that the Family long ago selected to be mine if I should become King. I was also hailed, in a great shout that allowed of no rebuttal, “Tutankh
amon
!” Not my real name that honors the Aten, but
their
name that honors
their
god: “Tutankh
amon
!” There was nothing I could do but outwardly accept, though inwardly I made a promise to myself about that. I was then led on to the most ancient innermost sanctuary of Amon where the golden idol, released from his long hiding in the passageway off Horemheb’s tomb at Sakkara, once more gleamed and glittered mysteriously in the gloom.

I looked into his hooded eyes and joined as best I could in the prayers chanted by Hatsuret and the rest; but between the hooded eyes and my own there passed a message that I think the hooded eyes understood. No one else saw it—no one to this day save Ankhesenpaaten is aware—but between the god and me there is no secret.

We are not friends, and he knows it.

Then I was led back through the pylons to the first courtyard, which had now been thrown open so that between its walls and as far as my eye could carry, to the very banks of the Nile itself, I could see my people, thousands upon thousands upon thousands of them, waiting to watch me go through once again, in public, the full traditional coronation ceremony that they had not seen since the crowning of my father, more than forty years ago.

Now the great roar welled up to greet me in person. And now it suddenly all became real to me, and to Ankhesenpaaten, too, who was brought forward to sit at my right hand, her chair a little back as became one soon to be, but not yet, Queen. Now I was to be united with my people in a bond of affection and love that nothing could break. The union with the god, restored with such desperate haste so that he might assert his claim on me as I was inducted into kingship, had been a cold, confusing and repellent ceremony to me. The taking of my crown again before my beloved people of my beloved Kemet was a thing so warm and marvelous that Ankhesenpaaten and I could only smile at one another in the wonderment and joy we shared in it.

The first part of the day was ridiculous—empty and horrid, as far as we were concerned. The second was love, in whose arms we have rested ever since, and upon whose endless kindness and unshakable loyalty we still hope to base our rule.

I was seated on the ancient throne of coronation, so old that its origins are lost in time. Before me the masked priests danced and chanted in the bright sunshine, somehow no longer chill but soft and warm with the magic of love. The khepresh was removed, the Double Crown was placed upon my head. Priests masked as the spirits of the Nile twined the lily and the papyrus, representing the Two Lands, around a pillar to symbolize their union. I then rose and made my ceremonial run around a square marked out upon the sand: this ancient rite represented the way my distant ancestors millennia ago ran around the boundaries of our first capital of Memphis to symbolize their assumption of rule.

There was more chanting, long and solemn, to which the vast crowd listened respectfully. Finally I returned to the throne, stepped forward and lifted my arms for silence. I was aware of consternation around me, sudden startled looks from my uncle Aye and Horemheb, Hatsuret’s uneasy turnings: this was not part of tradition. Akhenaten inaugurated it, this revolutionary direct contact with the people: they thought they had destroyed it, with him. I could see memory in their eyes, fear of what I might say, and I knew I must banish it at once. Indeed, I never intended else.

“My dearly beloved people of Kemet!” I cried, and my fluting child’s voice no doubt sounded thin and reedy in the utter silence; but they loved me for it, and their love came up to me in waves.

“Much of sadness and of ill has fallen upon us in recent years. Many were to blame”—for I would not blame
him,
ever, who strove for love and died for it, though I could sense the silent protests around me because I did not—“and all must now work together, to repair what has been done and make the Two Lands whole again. I will restore
ma’at,
I will bring back happiness. All will be again in Kemet as it was before. You and I, my dear people, together with our dear Queen, Ankhesenpaaten, will work to restore our beloved land.

“We will help one another, you and I! We will make all come right again for Kemet! Great will be her glory hereafter, forever and ever, for millions of years!

“I, Neb-Kheperu-Ra”—for a split second I hesitated, for the new name did not yet come easily to my tongue: then I decided it best to be clever and appear to accept—“Tutankh
amon
”—a joyful roar broke the silence to the very edge of the Nile, for they have never loved my brother’s Sole God of love, so I repeated it slowly—“I, Neb-Kheperu-Ra Tutankh
amon
, do so promise it!”

And turned back to resume my seat for the ceremonial games, to find my uncle, Horemheb and Hatsuret nodding and beaming with great relief and approval. They need not have worried: it was not at that moment I would choose to defy them, a child of nine only. How on earth could I?

There followed a procession through Thebes that lasted all afternoon, at which those who had been unable to crowd around the temple were able to shout to me and Ankhesenpaaten, borne high in our gold-painted baldachins, their exited, happy greetings. We then crossed the river to Malkata and attended the traditional ceremonial banquet for an hour or so, after which we were sent off to bed in charge of Ramesses and his wife Sitra, who are kindly people if a little dull.

It was high time for us to leave, in fact, because by then nearly all the top officials of the Court, including even Horemheb (though not my uncle Aye), were becoming very drunk, and other things were apparently soon to happen. On such occasions in Kemet—including the banquets that traditionally follow funerals, and particularly at the great Festival of Opet, which has now been revived and lasts for two weeks while Amon is brought from Karnak to visit his temple at Luxor—the ladies wear cones of perfumed wax atop their wigs. As the wax melts, the perfumes run down over their bodies. This combines with a great deal of wine that everyone drinks, and presently things occur that are rather far from the stately, dignified life recorded on the walls of our tombs and temples. Ankhesenpaaten and I soon learned, in fact, that such occasions often conclude with most of the guests rutting like animals in a communal orgy which disgusts us so that we have banned it from our own banquets. But it goes on all over Kemet, all the time. Next day, of course, everyone is dignified again and serene as a temple painting, if a little hollow-eyed.

We went to bed with the howls of our own guests—and from across the river the howls of the common citizens of Thebes, who always pour into the streets in a drunken mass on the slightest pretext to mimic their betters in every naked particular—ringing in our ears. With a wryness that came to me even at the age of nine, I reflected that the coronation of the King and Pharaoh Tutankhamon was indeed being suitably celebrated by his countrymen. When we said good night before being led to our respective chambers, Ankhesenpaaten and I agreed that this would never happen in our own palaces again. This is one thing, in spite of some grumbling by those who consider us strait-laced, that we have been able to achieve.

After that I lingered for a few weeks in Thebes, while Aye and Horemheb gave orders to Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, and to Tuthmose, our chief sculptor, to start the rebuilding and redecorating of all the temples. I then made a triumphal coronation progress to Memphis, to Heliopolis, Hermonthis, and finally back to Hermopolis, across the river from Akhet-Aten; and so from there back to this city that today we abandon. Here I have had one of my principal seats of government, though I have spent much time, too, in Memphis and in Thebes. Thebes in particular I like, because that is where I first became aware of life, in the Palace of Malkata; and now that we are being forced to leave this city that holds so many unhappy memories—and yet, for me and Ankhesenpaaten, as children growing up mostly in the palace of Nefertiti while my mother the Great Wife spent much of her time in Thebes, many happy memories, too—it is to Thebes that I will go. I told my uncle recently that I wished to add to my titles the words “Ruler of Southern ‘No,’” which means Thebes; and there was happy agreement from all, because they thought it meant I wanted to be near Amon, whom I appear to love so much. Actually I want to reoccupy Malkata, which of all my palaces, save the North Palace here which we must now abandon, I like the best.

Six months after returning here, Ankhesenpaaten and I were married in a lengthy ceremony, its first rites held in the House of the Aten, its second half held in the small temple of Amon adjoining what used to be my mother’s palace, now standing empty beside the Nile. Our desire to give the Aten such renewed prominence of course greatly disturbed Horemheb and Hatsuret, but to their surprise it was Aye who said firmly it should be so. It was he, in fact, who encouraged us to request it in the first place.

“We do not wish to destroy the Aten altogether,” he said to Horemheb when the two of them argued it out in my presence.

“Why not?” my cousin demanded bluntly.

“Because Aten is still a sacred aspect of Ra,” Aye replied with equal bluntness. “And while we have restored Ra’s other aspects, and given back their power to Amon and the other gods, we cannot simply pretend the Aten does not exist. The key to change in Kemet, my son, is ‘gradual’—
gradual.
Even though
he
(Aye does not name my brother if he can possibly avoid it. He does not go so far as to call him “the Heretic” or “the Criminal,” as Horemheb and many others do, but he will not say his name) is gone, still for a time the Aten
was
supreme. The god can only be reduced
gradually
to a lesser role.”

“Well, see that he is!” Horemheb said tersely, at which my uncle came as close to open anger as I have ever seen him display with my powerful cousin, whom I think he even then was beginning to fear.

“You do not order the Regent to do anything!” he snapped. “I shall proceed in moderation and sense, as I have done all things.”

“Including—” Horemheb began sarcastically, but his father cut him off with a terrible fierceness.

“
Do not raise old ghosts with me!
There is guilt enough for all and blood enough for all! Be satisfied with your portion, and be still!”

For quite a long time Horemheb stared at him, apparently unabashed, while I, frightened of their anger, almost hesitated to breathe. But Horemheb apparently was more intimidated than he showed, for presently he turned away with a sullen “Let us not do too much honor to the Aten, then!”