Aye
Sharply on the stroke of noon, when the sun abandons his youthful form of Horus and emerges in his full maturity as Ra, the Good God entered the temple. Standing respectfully aside in the shadows, we who had preceded watched him walk in slow, deliberate procession behind my brother Aanen to the great pylon gateway which he ordered erected in Amon’s honor four years ago. This vast structure, surmounted by eight flagpoles carrying long thin streamers painted with symbols sacred to the god, was created of the stones torn from a charming little pavilion built by Amonemhat I (life, health, prosperity!) one thousand years ago. Thus do the Good Gods pirate one another, tearing down each other’s monuments in order to build their own. There is a lesson here for them in the transitory nature of man—even men who are gods—but I doubt that they perceive it. Certainly I do not think this one does. But in any event, why should he? So it has always been in Kemet. And what has always been in Kemet will always be in Kemet.
To dare to think otherwise is to begin the cracking of the universe.
He passed through the gateway into the main courtyard, and instantly the hushed silence all around was broken by the clash of cymbals, the sound of castanets, the rhythmic metallic jangling of sistrums and the sweet flutter of harps. Twenty of the young priestesses of Amon, naked as always save for their intricately woven bead collars, danced forward and back, forward and back, in their standard ritual dance. I noted that he watched it politely but without his usual interest. Normally he will catch my eye, designate one or two; they will be sent to the harem, he will enjoy their variety for a week or two before he returns to my sister, and then they will be sent back to the temple carrying suitable gifts—unless, if they are lucky, they have caught the eye of some noble and find themselves transported to some other harem—or, if really lucky, into marriage, motherhood, domestication, respectability, that solid family life which in royal House or peasant’s hut is in many ways the life’s blood of Kemet.
Today he looked neither right nor left, eyes straight ahead, smile fixed. The girls danced as close to him as they dared; some of them even dared to look disappointed when he showed no interest. He remained unmoved. Soon they withdrew, whispering sibilantly among themselves. He proceeded. Mutemwiya, Sitamon, Gilukhipa, and I followed, with solemn paces, into the inner courtyard.
There he paused, bowed low to the statue of Tuthmose I (life, health, prosperity!), turned and bowed low to the giant statue of himself which he caused to be erected three years ago. He has already begun the process of self-deification, itself an indirect but somewhat more customary challenge to Amon, of the sort Amon has managed to absorb before and no doubt could do again—were that the only challenge.
Dutifully we followed as he led us past the copper-sheathed obelisks of the Good God Hatshepsut, not entirely defaced despite the savagely vengeful efforts of her half brother Tuthmose III (life, health, prosperity to them both!) after her death. So we came into the third courtyard, past the unending jumble of statues, paintings, obelisks, monstrous men, monstrous women, monstrous animals, that glorify the dead Pharaohs and the living gods of Kemet. And so presently, through a hallway suddenly narrow, suddenly so dark we could hardly see, we came to the inner sanctum where the single ray of light from Ra falls upon the golden head and hooded, brooding eyes of his son Amon.
There his other son paused, as did we all. Aanen sang the traditional chant of supplication for blessing on the new child; Pharaoh formally offered the incense, wheat, gold and jewels he had ordered sent earlier from the Palace, which the priests had placed on the altar before the somber figure in the gloom.
Then in a clear voice he said:
“May my new son, the god, be safely delivered of his mother’s womb; and may my older son, the god, be safely delivered of his journey to my side.” He paused for a second and when he spoke again a certain cold iron was in his voice: “Your son, the Good God, expects your help in this, O Amon.”
There was an audible gasp from the priests. Gilukhipa, a curious sometime ally of mine, shot me a sudden sharp glance, then instantly resumed her masklike look. Mutemwiya for a second looked openly dismayed, then also became impassive. Little Sitamon, moved by who knows what childish thought or impulse, suddenly gurgled with laughter, a clear, delighted, silvery sound.
There followed absolute silence.
Pharaoh bowed to Amon-Ra and, walking backward as mortal men walk backward away from him, moved toward the entrance. Watching, I saw hastening forward in the inner courtyard a tall, white-robed priest, face drawn and agitated. He stopped abruptly, stepped to one side, bowing low, to let Pharaoh pass. Then he hurried to my side as I too prepared to bow, back out, and follow.
“Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, wishes to speak to you,” he hissed. “At once.”
And at once, for the wisdom and discretion of Amonhotep, Son of Hapu, I know and respect, I went to him, slipping out a side entrance and hurrying to the temple door. There I found a white-faced Amonhotep, a white-faced Kaires and a terrified young soldier gripped firmly between them. Pharaoh approached, walking forward now, not seeing us, his eyes far away, and troubled as they have been all morning. We bowed almost to the ground, waited respectfully for him to pass. Then Amonhotep gave the young soldier a savage shake.
“Tell him!” he commanded. And the soldier did.
Would that I were not Councilor to the Good God now! Would that I could return with him happily to the Palace, kiss my sister, return swiftly and peaceably to my own quiet house where my own dear Hebmet undergoes her hard and difficult labor. There is where I am needed now! Not here, standing dazed in the glaring sun, staring dazed at Amonhotep, Kaires and the young soldier, while all around the world is filled with the wildly happy shouts that attend my sister’s safe delivery.
But there is no rest for councilors to the Good God: there are so few he can trust. There is no rest for Aye, who must bear always upon his shoulders the care of Kemet. There is no rest for anyone who challenges Amon. For now Amon has struck back, in a way terrible to contemplate.
What Amon does not understand—and even as I try to comprehend it all in one staggering moment, I find I must try to analyze, I must try to be generous, I must try to be fair, for that is Aye’s curse, that he is doomed to see all sides and yet be called upon to act—is that he has reacted out of all proportion to the challenge. The elevation of the Crown Prince to be High Priest of Ptah was not intended to be a threat to Amon. We recognize Amon’s necessity to the House of Thebes. We have desired only a check, let us say: a balance. A counterweight. A control. A lever with which to reduce insufferable priests, my brother Aanen chief among them, to their right and manageable level.
And now Amon has turned and exacted a terrible revenge. And how am I to tell the Good God?
“How will you tell the Good God?” Amonhotep whispers, and without answering him directly—for indeed I do not as yet have the slightest idea, so awful will be his anguish and so terrible the vengeance he is apt to let slip upon the one who brings him word—I respond instead with those other details that must be attended to at once.
“Kaires,” I say, and he looks suddenly terribly young but absolutely determined, so that I am proud of him, “do you take the soldier to the house of Amonhotep. Stay there until I send word. Do not speak to anyone on the way. If this one tries to speak to anyone, silence him. Kill him if necessary.”
“Oh, sir,” the young soldier cries, “I will be silent! I will not speak! Oh, believe me, Your Mightiness!”
Even in this awful moment I cannot refrain from a slight smile at his peasant ignorance of titles, and in a more kindly tone I say, “My boy, I know you will not. But just be aware that if you do my young friend here will kill you. Understand?”
“Yes, Mightiness,” he says humbly, and I know we will have no trouble with him.
“Good,” I say. “Kaires, be off!”
“Yes, sir!” he says, tugging at the soldier’s arm, and together they go hurrying away, to be lost immediately in the ecstatically happy crowd that shouts for Pharaoh’s departure, simultaneously honors my sister, and knows nothing of horror.
I turn to Amonhotep, who, I can see, is being restored to reasonable composure by the necessity for careful planning, just as I am.
“What about the other members of the party?” he asks, anticipating my words.
“Exactly,” I say. “Ramose will emerge from the temple in a second. Tell him. The two of you get a boat and go instantly to the place. Command everyone to stay there until I send word.”
“Excellent. And you, my poor friend? How will you do your difficult job?”
“I shall think of something.”
He nods quickly, hurries forward to Ramose, speaks a rapid sentence. Ramose visibly staggers, then instantly recovers, shrugs off his golden robe, tosses it to a nearby priest. They hurry forward through the crowd to the waterfront. Mutemwiya emerges from the temple, and I have found the solution. But first I must have a word with my brother Aanen, who has now seen Pharaoh safely to his barge and is returning to the temple.
I can tell that so far he has heard nothing; but I now understand much about that curious air, as of some secret inward knowingness, that I have observed in him all day.
I step directly in his path so that he almost bumps into me before he manages to stop, and say in a cold and level voice, “Brother, I would have a word with you.”
An instant alarm, as instantly gone, flickers in his eyes.
“Later,” he begins impatiently. “Later. I must help the Queen Mother—”
“Others will help her,” I say savagely, and I grip his arm with a terrible grip that makes him almost cry aloud with pain. “Now.” And in the presence of Amon. We are going back into the sanctuary, Brother. We are going to speak truth before the god. Come with me.”
He comes—reluctantly, looking angrily about, desperately seeking some excuse to break away. But there is none. Priests part before us, the ceremony is over. We are alone as we retrace our steps. There is no excuse. He comes.
Somber and hooded, the gleaming jeweled eyes of the golden statue stare down upon us in the single shaft of light
“Look well upon the god, Brother,” I say softly, “for you have murdered our nephew and the Good God will take a terrible vengeance upon Amon. This golden statue, the gold in your temples, your jewels, your cattle, your swollen granaries, your rich, abundant fields—all, all may fall before the vengeance of Pharaoh. How could you and your fellows ever be so stupid, Brother? How could you ever be so mad?”
“I do not know what you mean!” he replies angrily, and though our argument is furious our voices still are whispers in the presence of the god. “I have no knowledge that anything has happened!”
“You have had knowledge that it would happen, Brother,” I say, still softly, “and you may believe me when I tell you that now it has. An unexpected sand bar, carefully selected—a tipped boat—a little boy—your nephew, Brother, our flesh and blood for all that he is—was—Crown Prince and High Priest of Ptah—struggling and crying in the water. And who goes to the rescue, Brother? Not the priests of Ptah, for they are ruthlessly shouldered aside in the mad rush of the priests of Amon to save the boy. They surround him, they tug at him, they cry out and shove and haul. And somehow, Brother, he slips from their grasp and sinks before their eyes in three feet of water. They try—how they try!—but it is too late. Alas, Brother, how sad. How sad for everyone. But most of all, perhaps”—and I turn and exchange somber stare for somber stare with the golden figure who looms above us—“how sad for you, O Amon-Ra!”
“He will strike you dead!” Aanen hisses, but I shrug with an indifference I do not quite—not quite, for old awes die hard and I have been reared in the cult of Amon—feel. Nonetheless, my voice is unmoved when I reply.
“He will strike dead him who does not tell the truth, Brother.” And suddenly I fling up my arm toward the god and shout into the musty dust of centuries, “Now! Now!”
And my brother Aanen falls in terror, cringing and crying at my feet. And so we stay for some seconds until gradually the color returns to his face, some resurgence of determination to his jaw, a new and dangerous hatred in his eyes.
Slowly he gathers himself together, slowly rises. When he speaks it is in a whisper filled with savagery and no longer afraid.
“If Pharaoh takes vengeance upon Amon he will split asunder the land of Kemet and destroy the world. We may be destroyed, Brother, but he and his House will also be destroyed in such a battle. That would be the madness, not the disciplining of a Good God who has grown too great.”
“And what of Amon who has grown too great?” I demand bitterly. But I see that my brother is lost to us forever.
“There is no solution for it, Brother,” he says with a returning confidence, “except this: that we have to live together. So let us do so peaceably and as friendly equals.”
“But Amon does not wish to be an equal, Brother,” I say. “He wishes to rule.”
“Tell the Good God,” he says, and now he has recovered sufficiently that it is his voice which holds the menace, “that he would be most unwise—most unwise—to seek to topple Amon. For Amon lives. Amon lives!” And turning his back to me, he raises both arms to the god and begins to chant: “O Amon-Ra, O King of the gods, O highest of the high, mightiest of the mighty, maker of the world, spanner of the horizons, terrible in strength, awful in vengeance, O Amon, Amon, thou who art forever—”
And so I leave him as the eerie babble continues, supplicating his idol who looks down from above unmoved by mortal men. But it is not mortal men he deals with now. It is a god like himself.
I leave my brother alone in the gloom, chanting madly on beneath the golden figure, and I go to find the Queen Mother. And in my heart of hearts I know, for Aye is honest with all men and above all with himself, that my brother—may Anubis, welcomer of the dead, and the forty-two judges who bar the gates of the afterworld deny him entry to the Field of Rushes where the Westerners live on into eternity beneath the guardian gaze of Mert-se-ger, the Lover of Him Who Makes Silence, the goddess of the Western Peak!—I know that my brother is right.
We do have to live with one another, and if Amon is to be defeated, it must be done with more caution and more care than my poor sister and brother-in-law have lately shown.
Alas! I cry for them, and for the boy, who was an intelligent child and might have been a great Pharaoh! But the needs of the world press on.
I go to find her who must carry the news and comfort them in their anguish.
***