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Tutankhamun and the Daughter of Ra
a Mushroom eBooks sampler
Copyright © 1990, 2000, Moyra Caldecott
Moyra Caldecott has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.
First published in United Kingdom in 1990 by Arrow Books.
This Edition published in 2003 by Mushroom eBooks,
an imprint of Mushroom Publishing,
Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a sampler of Tutankhamun and the Daughter of Ra by Moyra Caldecott. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
Introduction
1 – The Coronation
2 – The First Love
3 – The Lion Hunt
4 – The Sacred Egg of Ra
5 – The Secret
6 – The Prize
7 – The Power
8 – The Waste
9 – The Death of a King
10 – The Letter
11 – The Funeral
12 – The Assassination
13 – The Glass of Wine
14 – The Princess
15 – The New Pharaoh
Epilogue
Notes
Chronology
Place Names
Proper Names
Gods and Goddesses
About Moyra Caldecott
Books by Moyra Caldecott
Akhenaten, the “heretic” king, who tried to revolutionize the Egyptian religious pantheon and make the Aten, as represented by the disc of the sun, supreme and only god, has died, probably by assassination. His successor, Smenkhkare, has also mysteriously disappeared. The young boy, Tutankhaten, his son by a secondary wife, has acceded to the throne, his legitimacy ensured by his marriage to Akhenaten’s daughter, his half-sister, Ankhesenpaaten.
After much political and court intrigue, General Horemheb has gained control over the Two Lands and re-asserted the power of the Priests of Amun.
* * * *
Tutankhamun’s tomb was discovered in 1922 by the archaeologist Howard Carter, and some of the most magnificent artifacts we have from ancient Egypt were found, undisturbed. There cannot be many people alive today who have not heard of Tutankhamun, or seen the objects from his tomb on display in museums or photographed in books.
But not so many know the story of his wife, the young Ankhesenamun, facing dangerous and troubled times. Letters from her have been discovered and preserved, telling a story both moving and tragic, but also of daring, intelligence and courage.
This is basically her story – the Daughter of Ra.
“Hail to you, you owners of souls, who are devoid of wrong, who exist for all eternity! Open to me, for I am a spirit in my own shape, I have power by means of this my magic, and I am recognised as a spirit.”
Spell 72, The Book of the Great Awakening (From The Book Of The Dead by R O Faulkner, British Museum Publications, 1985)
The Coronation
The boy stood barefoot and almost naked in front of the gigantic cedar doors of Amun’s temple – a simple kilt of fine white linen his only garment. Behind him were the most important priests and dignitaries of the Two Lands. He knew they were there. He could feel the pressure of their determination that he would be the king they had waited for since his grandfather Neb-maat-Ra, Amenhotep III, Great Bull of the Two Lands, had stepped into the solar boat and gone to join his ancestors in the Land of the Ever Living.
He was frightened. When this door opened he would no longer be Prince Tutankhaten, free to roam the palaces of his father and his grandfather, free to swim in the lakes with his sisters, play with other children, say what he liked. He would be Pharaoh, with all the world dependent on his every whim, his every word. He would wear clothes stiff with gold and jewels and would have to move with dignity. No longer would he chase his friends through the garden and throw stones at the birds. When these great doors opened he would enter a prison from which there was no escape. He would have to endure endless boring ceremonies; mouth again and again the words he had been taught; perform monotonous rituals; listen to the lengthy sacred texts endlessly intoned. He would be expected to know everything, see everything, be everything. He would be the sole conveyor of the gods’ power to earth.
As the only surviving son of the king among many daughters he knew he would have to take on this role one day. His mother Kia, for one, had never let him forget it. But when he had been learning to be a pharaoh he had looked on the lessons as elaborate games, remote from reality. Reality was the fun he had with his sisters and his friends. The hot, closed rooms of the House of Life where he was trained and instructed in the skills and knowledge he would need as Pharaoh he had endured as best he could, only waiting for the hour of release. His heart skipped a beat. If only he had paid more attention. But even if he had – no one expected him to inherit the throne at the age of nine. No one had prepared him for this.
He knew Ay was close behind him – Master of Chariots, Companion of the Great King, Vizier in charge of all things under the King. Ay who had been powerful in his grandfather’s court and because of this had not disappeared with all the rest who had been close to his father.
Everything had happened so quickly – his father’s death; Nefertiti, the Great Royal Wife, taking the throne; the murder of his uncle Djehuti-kheper-Ra whom he had liked and trusted; and, most frightening of all, the violent disorder in his father’s capital, Akhetaten, in which so many of his family and friends had perished. He shuddered to think of what it must have been like for the beautiful Nefertiti and his beloved sister Merytaten when the mobs turned on them and beat them to death. How could such things happen? General Horemheb said it was because his father had destroyed the rule of Maat, of Order and Justice, in the Two Lands by turning against the old gods who had kept the country in peace since the ancient days. “See,” he said, “what happens when the common people have no gods to respect and obey; when they have only themselves to consider.” But his father had not left the country without gods. There was the Aten, the greatest god of all, who held the whole earth in its care.
The young prince had not seen the ugly massacre at Akhetaten, nor General Horemheb’s fierce vengeance on those who perpetrated it, because he had been safe with his sisters on his grandfather’s estates at Per-hay, near Waset. But he had witnessed the confusion that followed and seen a distraught Kia at one moment preparing for them to flee, and at the next, grooming him to be King.
Big men with dark faces came and went. His sister Ankhesenpaaten listened impassively to what they had to say and dismissed them from her presence.
Then one night his younger sisters, his greatest friends, Nefernefruaten, Neferneferure and Setepenre, disappeared like so many other people he had known. Only Ankhesenpaaten and his mother remained.
He had never been close to Ankhesenpaaten. She was older than him, and never seemed to evince the joy of living the other daughters of Nefertiti did. Now it seemed she was to be his Queen, his Great Royal Wife. Because his mother was not royal, his sister Ankhesenpaaten, daughter of both Akhenaten and Nefertiti, and indeed carrying extra status by having been married to the king, her father, would give his claim to the throne unshakeable legitimacy.
General Horemheb stepped forward and placed a huge and heavy stone-headed mace in his hands. He knew what he had to do and did it.
He lifted it with all the strength in his thin arms and struck the door – once, twice, three times. The sound brought a chill to his heart as the immense panels of cedar, heavily laden with inscriptions and images in bronze, gold and silver rolled slowly back. He entered the sacred precincts – a minute figure overshadowed by the huge statues of his ancestors, by gigantic columns, by the tall priests who came forward to meet him, clad in stiff ceremonial garments, wearing the masks of the gods – the very gods his father had taught him were evil and had banished from the Two Lands. He looked at them uneasily. What was he to believe? Ay and Horemheb, who now seemed to hold the power in the Two Lands since Nefertiti’s death, assured him that his father had been insane and the country was in danger because the old gods had been mocked and driven out. They quoted instance after instance of how the Two Lands had suffered under his father. He was told that it was his responsibility to restore them to their rightful places and to rescue from destruction the kingdom he had inherited.
The figures before him looked both ridiculous and menacing. Men with animal masks.
“They are just pretending,” he told himself, and repeated it several times as they drew nearer. Horus with the head of a falcon, Lord of the Sky, representing divine kingship, the sacred son of sacred parents; Anubis, god of the Tomb, with the head of a jackal to remind us that through the jackal’s gut the dead are recycled into life; Khnum who fashions life on a potter’s wheel, wearing the head of a ram; Set, the god of storms, the dangerous god, with the head of an animal no one can name; Sobek, the crocodile . . . All these and more gathered round him and led him forward. The boy was frightened. His father had impressed on him that there was only one true god and that could not be represented by anything on this earth.
“Only the globe of the sun and the sun’s rays can give you an idea of his glory,” he had said. “Only the Aten that shines on all the world at one moment can even begin to show you what lies in his heart.”
He had witnessed his father and his father’s servants smashing the statues of the other gods and yet no retribution had fallen on them. Or had it?
Tutankhaten frowned, remembering his father’s sudden death and what had happened afterwards. For a while Nefertiti had ruled in his father’s place. Nefertiti, the beautiful one, whom his mother loathed. Nefertiti, the proud, who watched him sometimes with the cold eyes of a cobra. He could not know, young as he was, that there was a struggle going on for power in the Two Lands, and the faction against his father Akhenaten, was working secretly to overthrow him and place his son on the throne. For a while, his father’s friend, some said his brother, Djehuti-kheper-Ra, had looked as though he would rule Khemet. But he had been found dead in an alley. Nearly everyone he knew was either dead or had gone away. He was thankful for Ay, his father’s and his grandfather’s confidant, for giving some sense of continuity, some feeling of familiarity and security. He glanced briefly over his shoulder at Ay for guidance, momentarily forgetting what he must do next. Ay nodded him forward.
The priest with the mask of Horus took his hand and led him to a second door, twenty cubits high and fashioned from fine white limestone. Beside it was a colossal statue of one of his ancestors, Aa-kheper-ka-Ra, Djehuti-mes I.
Then a priest garbed as the god Atum, the creator of physical form, took his other hand. The door ground open slowly and the young prince entered the “hall of purification”. He stepped into a shallow crystal bowl of sacred water and four priests, each at one of the four cardinal points of the world – north, south, east and west – poured purifying water over him from four slender crystal vials. He felt the cool liquid on his skin and he shivered. There was no going back now. No pharaoh had ever ceased to be pharaoh while he lived.
Did he imagine it or did the statues that surrounded him, the carved images on the walls, suddenly seem different? Were their stone eyes seeing him? He felt his flesh goose-pimple and lowered his eyes at once to the paved floor. Blindly he followed where he was led.
The next hall was called “the house of the king” and was where the coronation ceremony itself would take place.
There had been a ceremony at Akhetaten in a coronation hall hastily erected for the purpose. But Ay and General Horemheb had said that that was not enough. All the gods of Khemet must declare him King, not only the Aten. The great temples at Ipet-Esut and Ipet-Resut had been partially restored for the purpose. Tutankhaten, if he had not been concentrating so hard on the floor at his feet, would have noticed that many of the reliefs of the gods were still chipped and scratched out and some walls were still smoke-blackened, the vivid colours of surface paint peeled and flaked.
His heart was beating uncomfortably fast as he passed between the papyriform columns and the two magnificent golden obelisks. Huge Osiriform statues of Djehuti-mes III and IV towered over him. He entered the chapel of the north, the “house of flame”, and the chapel of the south, the “great house”. The gods of the north and south crowded round him, encircling him, chanting the ancient, sacred (and largely unintelligible) words of the coronation ceremony.
He was expected to grasp a live cobra and stare into its cold, yellow eyes.
He was sick with fear as he felt its scaly body in his hand, and then the High Priest seized its tail and whirled it round his head so fast that it made almost a continuous circle. He did not feel another priest put something over his wig, but when the now dead cobra had been removed, he found that he had the royal uraeus on his head, the cobra of gold with eyes of topaz that was to protect him forever. He began to feel stronger – more confident. He felt the transformation from boy to king beginning.
One by one the crowns were placed on his head with ritual gesture and chanted words. He had been told by Ay that the crowns were divinities in themselves and when they were on him he would become the divinity itself and be great in magic. His father had never claimed this for the crowns that he wore.
“They are no more than symbols of office,” he had said. “It is you who will give them power – not they, you.”
But Tutankhaten could feel the difference in himself as they pressed upon his forehead. He straightened his back and lifted his head. No longer did he gaze nervously at the paved floor, but raised his eyes to stare boldly into the eyes of the masked priests and beyond them at the statues and reliefs around him. He met the eyes of the gods as an equal. He was Divine Pharaoh and no one ever again could tell him what to do.
The beginning of a smile broke through for the first time since the bewildering events of the past few months had disturbed the familiar routines of his life. He might well enjoy being Pharaoh! He would not be alone – the power of all the mighty beings beyond this world were with him. Even General Horemheb, whom he had feared up to now, was subservient to him in his role as Divine King.
His father had been wrong. The crowns were magic. He could feel their strength pouring into him and he spoke the words of a pharaoh in a voice that surprised even him because of its strength and depth.
Ankhesenpaaten, his Great Royal Wife, his Queen, would be having a simultaneous ceremony in the Temple of Mut, Amun-Ra’s consort. She would be surrounded by goddesses as he was surrounded by gods. She would be robed by priestesses clad in the robes of goddesses. The crown of Mut’s magic feathers would be placed on her head. Did she feel the changes he felt? But then he remembered that this was all not so strange to her. She had been through something of the kind when she reached puberty. She had been crowned the consort of her father – but not Great Royal Wife for all her royal blood. Never before had she been Great Royal Wife, Divine Queen. How would it be to go to bed with her, he thought. It was a relief to him that she at least would know what to do! His thoughts were just beginning to stray along these lines when he felt a touch on his elbow and knew that he had missed his cue.
Amun-Ra was granting him immortality and his thoughts were straying to an image of his sister-wife naked!
The double crown was on his head, the golden cobra at his brow, Amun, the Hidden Wind, was breathing into his nostrils the breath of eternal life. He drove the image of his sister from his mind with difficulty.
“Eternal Life?” What did it mean? He could not envisage it no matter how many texts about it his tutors made him read.
“It is not everlasting life,” his father had once said in answer to a question. “Though that too is granted. It is life without time, without place, without extension in any sense. It is now and yet not now. It is here and yet not here. It is everywhere and yet nowhere. It is neither before nor after . . .”
At this point the prince had given up listening. He regretted that now. For it was to be his – and he did not understand what it was.
Later, sitting on the throne that the great Thutmosid kings had sat upon, the god Amenhotep II, and his own grandfather, the greatest of them all, he forgot to ponder such questions and wondered rather how he would be able to carry out all the things that were expected of him as Pharaoh in this life.
Priests impersonating the hermaphrodite god of the Great River, the river that gave Khemet life, were twining the lily and the papyrus, the plant symbols of the south and of the north lands, around the legs of his throne, and he spoke the words of invocation:
“Master of vegetation, Lord of the fishes and the birds, great water god whose powers transform a dead land to a living, be at our side, now and forever.”
Without the swelling of the waters, without the floods that deposited the rich black mud, his country would be lost. A pharaoh must surely be more careful about his relationship with Hapi than with any other god. Yet, Tutankhaten thought, a slight frown creasing his smooth young forehead, there had not been famine at the time of Akhenaten and he knew for a fact that Akhenaten had refused to honour the river god, though he had not attacked his sanctuaries with such diligence as he had those of Amun.
Tutankhaten had been gripping the two sceptres in his hands so tightly that his fingers ached. He loosened his hold slightly and one almost slipped from his grasp.
It was the one still embellished with the sign of the Aten. The inscription read:
the face of the king, son of Amun, dazzles like Aten when he shines.
“I’ll never give it up,” he whispered to his heart, and held it firm again. Ay and Horemheb had not declared the Aten anathema as Akhenaten had Amun. All ancient gods were to be venerated and the Aten was no exception. But, young as he was, he suspected that if he showed an inclination to follow his father’s way too closely he might not live long. He did not understand all the implications of the changes that had so rapidly occurred, but he was shrewd enough and alert enough to know that he was walking on a glass floor, and if he was clumsy and took one step without the guidance of these two men, his whole world would collapse under his feet.
He thought about Ankhesenpaaten again, but this time remembering the look in her eyes when she was told by Ay and General Horemheb she was to be Great Royal Wife. There was nothing of the joy and gratitude he would have expected – only a look that suggested she was weighing up the pros and cons coldly and suspiciously. She bowed to him as her future husband and king, but her eyes did not meet his, and he was shocked by the suppressed anger he sensed in her tense body. He had never been as close to her as to his other half-sisters, but he had not suspected that she hated him. Did she hate him? Or were the Vizier Ay and the stern General the focus of her rage?
As the priests intoned the ancient words over him and clothed him in his coronation robes, he tried to remember every detail of that extraordinary confrontation.
Ankhesenpaaten had been seated by the window looking out into the garden when they arrived. She stood up immediately and faced them. She ignored him from the start and it was as though he and Ay did not exist. Her eyes went straight to the General. Nothing was said for what seemed a long time. The two looked into each other’s eyes and Tutankhaten, who had felt so uncomfortable in that silence, now knew why. Though nothing could be seen it was as though the two were fighting a duel. Ay put his hand on his shoulder as though to hold him back from a battle. What was this palpable hatred between the young princess and the weathered General? Tutankhaten was so ignorant of the power struggle that had destroyed his father that he could not understand it. To him the General had been the one to punish those who had used violence against his family. He remembered that his mother Kia, who had lived in obscurity away from the court for some time, had been recalled and reinstated honourably – but only after the arrangements for his marriage to Ankhesenpaaten had been completed. He remembered something now he had overlooked at the time. He barely knew his mother for he had been brought up at the court – either with his grandparents at Per-Hay, or in the beautiful City of the Sun, Akhetaten. But he was present when she was told who was to be his Great Royal Wife, and he knew now her reaction had been unfavourable. A daughter of Nefertiti could never be close to her heart.
They were intoning his titles.
“King of Upper and Lower Egypt; Neb-kheper-Ra, becoming like Ra every day; Son of the Sun; Tutankhamun, living image of Amun; Ruler of Abedju, the sacred city of Osiris; Lord of Diadems: Beloved of Amun, Son of Amun, born of Mut, Lady of Heaven . . .”
He had been told that his name would be changed from Tutankhaten to Tutankhamun, but until it was said in the great echoing hall, accompanied by trumpets, he had not grasped it.
At last he stood alone in the most sacred sanctuary of all before the shrine of Amun-Ra himself, standing in golden splendour in his golden solar boat.
At this moment he knew that Ankhesenpaaten, now named Ankhesenamun, would be in the sanctuary of Mut in the southern temple of Ipet-Resut. She would be raising her arms to the goddess as he was to the god. She would be speaking the words from the timeless texts as he was speaking them. She would also be clad in fine linen, weighed down by jewelled necklaces and belts, a crown upon her head. He felt strangely as though they were together in one place, though many leagues separated them. Amun and Mut, great god, the Hidden One, the Breath of Life, and his consort, the Mother, the bearer of all living beings, seemed to stand side by side, and he and his Great Royal Wife were taken into their embrace and made their instruments upon earth.
He looked into the blue lapis lazuli eyes of the golden god and it seemed to him they were no longer jewels but living eyes that could see into his soul. He was seized with terror and longed to flee, but his limbs seemed paralysed and he could not move. He could not even lower his gaze but felt the eyes of the god boring into his until he was nearly fainting from the strain of it. He found tears flowing down his cheeks.
His heart cried out many wild things – but no words passed his lips but the ones he had learned by rote and was expected to say. In his heart he pleaded for forgiveness for what his father had done – and what he had done under his influence. He swore to uphold the worship of Amun-Ra and never let it die. He swore a thousand vows he later wished he had not, but the relentless stare of the god was torture. He wondered if it was too late. Would the god extract vengeance for what had passed? He wished he had not been chosen Pharaoh. Not only would he be the god’s instrument on earth, but he would be in the god’s power to an extent no other being on earth would be. He would be bound in all the nine parts of his being and there would be no escape – ever. Not even in death.
It seemed to him the god was becoming ugly and distorted as the gold shimmered through his tears. Darkness seemed to be closing in around him and he felt himself falling.
And then he knew no more.
The nine-year-old boy had fallen forward in a faint, his crown dislodged and lying at the god’s feet.
The High Priest fetched him out.
No word was ever said about it.
Sacred water and incense revived him, and, dazed and only half conscious, he was put into his golden carrying chair and taken out through the many doors and gates of the dark temple into the blazing sunlight of the city. There the crowds surged forward and fell at his feet. Bewildered and unhappy the child stared out from beneath the double crown at the thousands upon thousands of people screaming and shouting his name. Trumpets blared. Drums rolled. Petals rained down upon him.
He could see the sweat pouring down the necks of the high nobles who, for this momentous occasion, had vied with each other to take the place of slaves and carry the new pharaoh triumphantly to meet his Great Royal Wife.
From the southern sanctuary of Mut, Ankhesenamun was also being carried – but she did not look into the faces of those who crowded round her and screamed her name. She looked above their heads to the sky. A cloud had crossed the sun and its long rays could be seen clearly reaching down towards her.
Quietly she bowed her head and murmured the words of a prayer to the Aten she had learned at her mother’s knee:
“How manifold are thy works. They are mysterious in men’s sight. Thou sole god, like to whom there is none other. Thou didst create the earth after thy heart, being alone, even all men, herds and flocks, whatever is upon earth, creatures that walk upon feet, which soar aloft flying with their wings, the countries of Khor and of Kush, and the land of Khemet. Thou settest every man in his place, and makest their sustenance, each one possessing his food, and his term of life counted; tongues made diverse in speech and their characters likewise; their complexions distinguished, for thou has distinguished country and country . . .
Thou makest the seasons in order to prosper all that thou has made, the winter to cool them, the summer heat that they may taste of thee. Thou has made the sky distant to shine in it and to see all that thou hast made, being alone and shining in thy various forms as the living Aten, appearing gloriously and gleaming, being both distant and near . . .”
The First Love
Not yet twelve years old Ankhesenpaaten had borne a child, a daughter, to her father the Pharaoh Akhenaten. The dynasty was running out of princes carrying the royal blood. Nefertiti had produced only girls and while Akhenaten loved them dearly, a son of royal blood would make the future of the dynasty more secure. Also, for Akhenaten it was not just a matter of the physical succession, but, because of his obsessive belief that only he and his close family were capable of carrying the power of the Aten on earth and mediating it to his subjects, he was determined to produce a son carrying the pure blood of the Aten. In marrying his daughter he was not doing anything unprecedented. Sitamon, his sister, was married to her father and given the status of Royal Wife. But it was not until nearly the end of his life that Akhenaten realised that Sitamon had borne a son to her father of purer blood than himself. If it had not been for the determination of his own mother, Great Royal Wife Queen Tiye, a commoner lifted to royal status by the love of his father, he himself might not have come to the throne. The existence of the Prince Djehuti-kheper-Ra, son of Sitamon, had been kept secret and he had led a life of obscurity far from the court until a few years before Akhenaten’s death.
Ankhesenpaaten had entered the parental marriage with resignation. She did not cry out when the first coitus took place and she did not cry out when she gave birth. She knew her father was disappointed that her child, who soon died, was a girl and assumed that she would have to bear more children. But he appeared to abandon the attempt to father a son on her and became so absorbed in other matters that she lived untouched and almost unnoticed among the other wives of the House of Women.
Sometimes she was lonely and longed for the carefree days of her childhood. But when she joined her sisters and her former friends she found nothing was the same. She was bored and irritated by their games and realised she had outgrown their childish chatter. Her greatest pleasure became listening to the adult gossip of the court – watching, observing, absorbing all she could – while giving nothing back. If her parents had thought to question her she would have been able to tell them about every intrigue, every disaffection, every minute shift of loyalty, long before anyone else noticed anything.
She watched Djehuti-kheper-Ra, her father’s friend and confidant, and could have told Akhenaten long before it came out, that the man was obviously closely related to him, and that he met with the priests of Amun from time to time in secret. She monitored every expression on his face before and after such meetings. She noticed his love for her elder sister Merytaten, and his hopeless desire for Nefertiti – probably before he himself was aware of either.
She moved so unobtrusively about the court, there was hardly a thing hidden from her. She never spoke of anything she knew. Her satisfaction was in knowing it when others were still ignorant.
Her mother once accused her of loving no one, of being cold and feelingless. But this was not true. There was a need to love and be loved. It was just that in the first bewilderment of having to play the role she was expected to play she had built up such defences around herself that she no longer knew how to live without them.
Nefertiti was increasingly busy with complicated and difficult matters. The early days in the Golden City of the Sun when the family were together and were seen to represent the ideal of living under the Aten, were fast disappearing. Maketaten, one of their daughters, died. The priests of Amun, like wounded and dangerous animals, hit out at every vulnerable point. Akhenaten the dreamer became Akhenaten the oppressor. In order to force his ideas on the Two Lands he was resorting to means that as a youth he would have abhorred. Nefertiti was playing dangerous games, trying to hold the whole together. She had not much time for her third daughter – but when she did take note of her she was worried. She seemed much older than she was. The expression in her eyes sometimes almost frightened her. Merytaten had her love for Djehuti-kheper-Ra. The three youngest girls were still children and unaware of the dark clouds gathering over the sun. But Ankhesenpaaten? Ankhesenpaaten knew everything that was going on – and kept it buried in a brooding heart. She even knew that it was General Horemheb who had poisoned her father.
It was this impression that Ankhesenpaaten gave of being so cold and calculating, so old and worldly-wise, that made Kia dislike and distrust her. Tutankhaten’s mother had a much simpler personality than Nefertiti and her daughter. She loved and hated what she saw on the surface of things and never dreamed that what she saw was not necessarily what was really there. When at last she was brought back into the life of her son she fell upon him with almost suffocating affection, treating him as the baby she had been separated from for all those years. Ankhesenpaaten resented this of course and Kia sensed this resentment.
Akhenaten had been fond of Kia, and had found her warm and direct nature comforting. It was perhaps for this reason Nefertiti had sent her away. She could see that sometimes her husband would rather be in the undemanding company of Kia, having his scalp or back massaged to the accompaniment of a pleasant little folk song, than in her own company making passionate love or talking excitedly about important matters that affected this world and the next.
* * * *
When all the ceremonies and festivities of the marriage to Tutankhamun and the coronation were over there came a time when the young King and his Great Royal Wife were alone together.
Tutankhamun looked at Ankhesenamun seated at the table in their chamber. A long day of tedious and exhausting official business was over. The Queen was holding up a polished silver mirror and quietly wiping away the cosmetics from her face with a well oiled pad of soft cotton. Most women in her position would have had servants to do this for her, but Ankhesenamun preferred to do it herself. Her women had removed her jewels and her garments and stored them away, and then silently left. They knew this last rite was always Ankhesenamun’s own. It was as though, slowly, carefully, she was removing the layers of a disguise, the layers of another persona. At first she had not let her husband observe this process and see her as she really was, but this night she knew that she could not avoid intimacy any longer. Something in her yearned for it, and something else made her want to run away.
She had known this boy since infancy. She had taught him his first words. Now, still a child with the soft rounded cheeks of a child, she was expected to initiate him into manhood.
As she combed out her hair she could feel his eyes fixed on the breast he could just glimpse under her raised arm. She began to feel the tingling she had felt when she had been listening in to the erotic tales of the women in the House of Women. From them she had learned more about the possibilities of the sexual act than she had ever learned in her brief marriage to her father.
She continued to comb her hair long after it was needed, moving casually and seductively, feeling the young boy’s eyes on her all the time. Since her father no male had touched her, and with her father she had felt nothing but a dull sense of duty and a certain revulsion.
Listening to the women had set her off exploring her own body and now she was longing to feel how it would be with another. Tutankhamun was too young to give her full satisfaction – but he was a virgin and had learned no bad ways. She, if she was careful, would be able to teach him to give her pleasure. She had heard enough of the complaints of the women to know a man should not be allowed to get away with only pleasuring himself.
He stood beside the bed when she lay down, awkwardly, not knowing whether he dare make a move towards her or not.
She kept him standing there for some moments feasting his eyes and then she reached out her hand for him.
Eagerly and clumsily he lay down beside her, putting a hand tentatively on her breast – not knowing what to do next. She could see that he was hot and desperate, but fiercely shy. She turned her body against his and gently started to stroke him. She took his hand and taught him how to stroke her and in what places.
That first time was not a complete success, but the barrier had been broken and they both knew it would not be long before their nights together would be the most precious part of their lives – the only times when, burdened as they were with state duties and responsibilities beyond their years, they could seek out and find a secret pleasure for themselves and a relationship that kept them from despair.
* * * *
During the first year of his reign Tutankhamun barely spent a month in Akhetaten. The royal entourage was always on the move. Ceremonies had to be performed at all the major centres, in each case to re-establish the gods of that centre and the new king’s commitment to them. At Men-nefer the King was named the son of Ptah, the Creator, and Sekhmet, the Destroyer, the male and female deities of that great city. At Abedju he was identified with Horus, the son of Osiris who ruled the Underworld, and his sister-wife Isis.
At every centre Ankhesenamun was at his side, the importance of the balance of male and female energy constantly emphasised. But whatever ritual significance it might have, Tutankhamun was glad of her presence and at night when the watching eyes and guiding hands of Ay and Horemheb could not reach them, they performed their own and very personal ritual to release tension and make them forget their cares.
Exhausted, Tutankhamun fell asleep quickly, but more often than not Ankhesenamun lay awake for a long time beside him, thinking. The chamber was never very dark for since the violent events at Akhetaten, Tutankhamun had insisted on having at least one lamp burning all night. She stared into its flame and pondered the enigma of gods and humans. If the gods and goddesses were great spirit beings free of the restrictions imposed on humans by encasement in flesh, why were they so dependent on humans? Why must humans appeal to them, sacrifice to them, name their names? Surely they existed whether people recognised them or not? Surely they did their work whether people asked them to or not?
When her father was alive she had often been bored and irritated by his obsession with religion. It seemed to her life was a performance – a continuous enactment of set pieces, and those who were deemed successful were only those who gave the most convincing performances. She was fascinated by masks and as a child spent a great deal of time constructing them. She wondered what had happened to her collection of masks. She smiled wryly remembering the times she had frightened her nurse and her companions by appearing unexpectedly out of the shadows wearing one or other of her masks. Or did the nurse or the companions only shriek with pretended alarm? Was their reaction a performance too?
Part of her pleasure in eavesdropping and in observing all that happened at court came from figuring out what act, what script, what manoeuvre was being used to produce what reaction.
At a very early age the words of hymns and prayers ceased to have meaning for her and became patterns of sound to fill the silence – scripts to be followed and learned by rote, signifying nothing.
Even at the death of her infant daughter she wept because she knew it was expected. One mourned dead people loudly and theatrically. Only once when she was alone with the frail and sickly little body before it was embalmed, and there was no one there to see her act, did she wonder what it might have been like if the little creature had lived and shared love with her. The twinge of sorrow for an opportunity lost was not feigned.
She turned her head and looked at the boy at her side. His dark lashes lay against a flushed cheek. His full and rounded lips were slightly parted and she could hear his breath stirring very softly, very regularly. She felt sorrow that, so young and so naïve, he was plunged into a corrupt and savage world, the puppet of forces that cared nothing for him. She put her lips against his forehead and kept them there, drifting at last towards sleep, gathering him in her arms.
* * * *
Day after day lists of names were brought to the young Pharaoh by Ay and Horemheb and he was either told that they were names to be trusted and that they must be appointed to such and such a post, or that they were names not to be trusted and they must be either banished or destroyed. Most of the names meant nothing to him. Only Ay and Horemheb knew the faces behind the names. The boy put his royal seal where he was told and made no demur. Later, men were brought before him as he sat upon the throne and again, on the instructions of Ay and Horemheb, he either appointed, rewarded or condemned them. Petitions were read out, but it was not his decisions that were implemented.
Ankhesenamun was very well aware of the power of the Vizier and the General and the helplessness of the boy on the throne. She watched all that happened with growing bitterness, but even if it had been in her nature to interfere she could not. Both his grandfather and his father had broken with tradition and brought their Great Royal Wives forward to share power. Everyone knew Queen Tiye had been formidably influential behind the throne, but Nefertiti had taken one step further forward and actually ruled from the throne when her husband died. Horemheb was determined this would not happen again and he made sure it was understood that with the return of the old religious traditions, the old court protocol was to be meticulously observed. Ankhesenamun was to be seen as the loving wife, the adoring woman, the bearer of the royal bloodline and hopefully, of the royal heir, but was to have no say in government, no life of her own. She was to look beautiful and keep her mouth shut. This was made very plain, and she knew her life depended on how obediently she played this role.
Sometimes she thought of risking everything and speaking out to make Tutankhamun aware that he had power himself and should assert it – that he was being used to implement policies that should not be implemented, appoint men who should not be appointed, and punish men who should not be punished. But she hesitated. Tutankhamun was not ready to make his own decisions. Time and again she saw that he was taken in by appearances and swayed by lies and flattery. At least Horemheb and Ay knew what they were doing and were pursuing a consistent policy. If Tutankhamun took power now they would all be at the mercy of a child’s whims and fancies. Much as she loved him, she knew he had not found himself, and until he did, she would bide her time.
But when he did, she thought, Horemheb and Ay better take care!
* * * *
Tutankhamun grew accustomed to the formalities of kingship and accepted the necessity to be dressed in full regalia, seated on his grandest throne while foreign princes and diplomats filed past, doing obeisance to him and laying costly gifts at his feet. On these occasions Ankhesenamun stood behind the throne and watched in the way she had watched when her parents were alive. With an unerring natural instinct for reading human nature, she amused herself by speculating on the thoughts of those who came forward. She read their true status within their own community by the depth of their bow. She read their hopes and desires and fears in their eyes as they approached and walked away. She saw what they expected and wanted from the king at whose feet they laid their gifts, though sometimes it was at variance with the carefully rehearsed speeches they made.
Tutankhamun saw nothing but their symbols of office and the gifts they brought.
Under the great warrior king, Djehuti-mes III, Khemet had extended its borders well into the eastern countries and south, further into Nubia and Kush than it ever had before. Vassal rulers were obligated to send tribute to the mighty King of Kings. Amenhotep III, had ruled more by diplomacy than war, and had kept the far-flung empire safe for Khemet by shrewd use of bribe, hostages and diplomatic marriage. But Akhenaten, his son, had not been concerned to maintain the empire and within the chain that bound it to the Egyptian throne there were now many weak links. Khemet’s power was shifting and crumbling. Almost more than anything else Horemheb was determined to shore up the empire and secure it against foreign invasion and internal disaffection.
On Ay’s advice, he invited the rulers of the powerful kingdoms outside the empire, but now threatening its security by their own desire for expansion, to visit the new Pharaoh, hoping the massed armies on parade, the pomp and ceremony, would impress on them that the power behind the new King was not to be underestimated. They knew and he knew it would be more than a social visit. Behind the scenes there would be discussions; there would be flexing of muscles; there would be veiled threats, deals struck and compromises agreed.
Many came, curious to take the measure of the new rule. Some did not.
Among those who came were three Hittite princes. Their father, Suppiluliuma, ruled a huge country beyond Khemet’s control and expanding every year by conquest. It was a formidable enemy and had already absorbed many of Khemet’s vassal states into its own domain.
The Hittite princes did not come as supplicants. They came as equals and were royally entertained. Gifts were exchanged and they expected to return to the land of Hatti with as rich a haul as they had brought with them.
The Lion Hunt
Two of the Hittite princes were tall men, warriors, hard and formidable. They were on enemy territory no matter how much everyone pretended that this was a diplomatic visit between friends, and they did not relax vigilance for a moment. The heir to the throne had not come with them. Suppiluliuma had many sons. The eldest visitor was his second son, Mursilis, and the youngest was his seventh, Zannanza. The latter was no more than a young lad not much older than Tutankhamun and was clearly delighted with everything he saw. Ankhesenamun watched him in particular with amusement as he ogled the naked serving girls, the rich and elegant furniture, the elaborate jewels of the court nobles. When he was greeting Tutankhamun his eyes never strayed from his necklace, a winged golden scarab rising from a lake of turquoise and lapis lazuli lotus blossoms. The Hittite princes had jewels too, but they were clumsier, rougher, less delicately and skilfully worked. Zannanza had broad gold bracelets on his upper arms studded with river-worn garnets, no necklace at his throat, but heavy rings on two of his fingers. From his heavily garnet-studded belt hung a dagger of precious iron with a rock crystal pommel. If Zannanza’s eyes were on Tutankhamun’s necklace, Tutankhamun’s were on the dagger at the belt of the Hittite prince. Ankhesenamun noted everything. The elder princes were determined to disapprove of everything they saw, putting down Egyptian finery to Egyptian decadence, while their young brother was obviously excited by such luxury, such beauty, and seduced by it.
That night when they retired to their chamber Tutankhamun spoke of nothing but the iron dagger. The blade of the ceremonial adze used in Egyptian funerals for “opening the mouth” of the deceased was made of meteoric iron sent by the gods from the sky – but the Hittites were said to have found this metal on earth. Indeed the eldest, Prince Mursilis, had an arm band of it decorated with an image of their storm god wielding a zigzag lightning bolt. It was clearly a mark of his status in his father’s kingdom. Tutankhamun had seen beads made of the metal before and small funerary objects, but never a weapon.
“I don’t care what treasure the Hittites have brought,” he said to Ankhesenamun. “It is only that dagger I want.”
“I doubt whether he’ll part with it,” Ankhesenamun said. “In their land no one but the royal family may have iron.”
“Their kingdom is nothing to ours,” Tutankhamun grumbled. “You can see they are almost savages!”
“Don’t underestimate them,” she replied mildly. “They may be different from us, but their father is a force to be respected. He has made the Mittanians and the Babylonians look to their armies.”
“Not one of them could stand up against the Two Lands,” Tutankhamun boasted.
“I hope we may not be put to the test, my Lord,” she said. “I would say our forces are not yet ready to face up to any one of them. And if they combine . . .”
“Horemheb says . . .”
“Horemheb says many things,” she interrupted impatiently. “He does not see any way of keeping our country great except by force of arms. You would be better off taking advantage of the visit of the Hittite princes to make friends and alliances.”
“I will make friends,” Tutankhamun said suddenly. “And he will give me that dagger as a friend – not as King of Khemet!”
Ankhesenamun put her arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek.
“You are learning, my brother.”
“You are a good teacher,” he said, and kissed her on the lips.
* * * *
The next day Tutankhamun made a point of singling out the youngest Hittite prince from among the distinguished guests and suggesting a tour of the palace grounds.
“I have a collection of animals from all over the world,” he said. “There may be some there you have never seen.”
The prince was pleased to accept and Ankhesenamun accompanied them. They were all relieved to leave the formality of the court for a while.
The Hittite stared at everything; the lush gardens and ponds rich in fish and water plants, the palm trees and sycamores lining the paths, the slender painted columns of the shady colonnades, the colourful pavements of flowered tiles.
Tutankhamun’s private zoo was well away from the living quarters of the palace and a place the boy-King visited less and less as he grew older and busier. It was a place he enjoyed, a place to which he could escape, and the Hittite prince did not realise how privileged he was to be taken there.
He gazed with amazement at the animals from distant lands. He had never seen a giraffe before, nor several of the types of gazelle. The animal with which he was most familiar was the lion. In the iconography of his own country the lion was the most important. The statues of gods were carved standing on the backs of lions. His own father’s palace was entered through a mighty lion gate.
Tutankhamun had inherited a pair of lions from his grandfather, and the magnificent beasts were housed in a special part of the zoo behind high walls. Zannanza, Tutankhamun and Ankhesenamun climbed up alabaster steps to a viewing platform and looked down upon the family. Three new cubs had recently been born and the mother lay in the shade of a tree while they suckled. The father strode up and down, up and down the length of the wall restlessly, longing for his freedom.
Zannanza had not seen captive lions before, let alone lions bred in captivity. The mountains near his home were dangerous with lions and the lion hunt was one of the royal sports most encouraged among the princes.
Tutankhamun offered him a male and female cub to start his own pride and the prince eagerly accepted. Ankhesenamun smiled quietly to herself to see how Tutankhamun eyed the iron dagger at the prince’s belt while he made the offer, and how unaware Zannanza was of the strings attached to the gift.
When they returned to the palace Zannanza broke excitedly into his own language, no doubt telling his brothers about the animals he had seen. The eldest listened gravely and then suggested something that made Zannanza pale a little.
Ankhesenamun asked him quietly what was being said.
“My brother suggests the King might like to take us on a lion hunt while we are here. It is the custom in our country for princes to be expert in this sport and it is clear there is such a custom here too.”
Tutankhamun hesitated. Yes, it was the custom, but so far he had not gone on such a hunt alone. He was now twelve years old and it would not be long before he would be expected to prove his manhood in many difficult ways. But he would not like to fail in anything before the Hittite princes, and he was not sure that he would be capable of bringing down a lion unaided yet.
The two elder princes were watching him closely. It was clear their motives for suggesting the hunt were not entirely what they seemed.
Ankhesenamun was about to step in to divert their attention from the idea, when Tutankhamun raised his hand imperiously to stop her.
“We will set off tomorrow,” he said calmly. “The journey will be long for there are no lions so near the city. Can my friend, your King, spare his sons for so long?”
“Our father, the King, Mighty Lion beyond all lions, would be happy for his sons to learn the ways of the Pharaoh of the Two Lands in hunting the lion.”
There was nothing to be done. It was clear they were determined to test the boy-King out, and if he failed to accept the challenge or failed in meeting the challenge, there would be some insulting and hilarious tales told about the King of Egypt at Hattusas on their return. It was not spelled out, but Ankhesenamun could read the message in their eyes. It was the honour of the Two Lands that was at stake here. She took her husband’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Will Prince Zannanza also hunt?” she asked quietly. She had seen in his eyes the same fleeting look of panic as she had seen in Tutankhamun’s. It was clear to him that he also would be on trial. He too had not yet been on a full lion hunt at which he was expected personally to bring down a lion. The two were of an age and the two brothers were amused to pit them against each other. Ankhesenamun would not have been surprised had they taken out wagers on the boys.
The young prince coloured slightly at her question and then lifted his chin.
“Of course,” he said.
“I will accompany you,” the young Queen said.
“This is not women’s work,” Prince Mursilis said sharply.
“I do not intend to hunt, my Lord,” she said coldly, having taken a dislike to him from the first, “though my mother often hunted with my father. I will come to watch how the great princes of Hatti conduct themselves upon such a hunt.”
Zannanza looked as though he wished she would not, but Prince Mursilis nodded curtly and said, “So be it.”
And so the arrangements were made.
* * * *
Mursilis made it quite clear that he wanted an exciting and challenging hunt. Ankhesenamun wondered if he was as determined to travel so far to the south not because he was in search of the wildest places and the most dangerous lions, but because he wanted to take the measure of the whole country. She could not believe that the Hittites would ever invade Khemet itself – though they might feel encouraged to attack more of the Egyptian vassal states if they felt they could get away with it. It was true Egypt had once been invaded and conquered by the Hyksos who were an Asiatic people. She was proud that the first kings of her own dynasty had been the ones to rid the Two Lands of them. For all she disliked Horemheb, he was a good and wary general, and if need be Khemet would be defended, and any invading force would be flung back.
As they travelled south, first by boat and then by mule train and horse, she observed Mursilis. He was strong and hard and arrogant. There were several scars on his muscular arms and one beneath the left breast. He was a man of action and impatient with his young brother who spent time talking about art and music with herself and Tutankhamun. She intercepted a look that passed between the two elder Hittite princes once when Zannanza was telling her how much he was hoping to train for the priesthood and leave the court of his father.
“Will you serve the fearsome storm god Teshub?” she asked.
“No,” he said, lowering his voice as though he did not want his brothers to hear him. “Hebut, the Mother.”
“What does your father think about that?”
He flushed and looked to see if his brothers were listening. Not for the first time Ankhesenamun received the impression he was afraid of them.
Mursilis laughed harshly.
“Whatever he wishes, his father grants him,” he said. There was such bitterness in his voice it was clear that Zannanza, the son of a favourite wife, was a favourite of the old King and the others resented how much he was indulged. “He will look into the mirror of Hebut and dream his life away.”
“A mirror mirrors life. Will he not see himself clearly?” she said softly. “Will he not know himself for what he is – while others who do not look into her mirror,” she added pointedly, “delude themselves about themselves?”
Mursilis shrugged and turned away pretending to be bored with the talk of a woman when there were better things to be done.
Ankhesenamun caught Zannanza’s eye and read gratitude there. She liked him. He was not a weakling as his brothers implied. He would be a strong man one day too, but with an inner strength the other two seemed to lack.
* * * *
They made camp at last in a district well known to be the haunt of lions. The guards who had come with them were experienced in lion country and lost no time in organising things so well that, within the camp, they would be quite safe. Having come this far, driven on by her interest in studying the Hittite princes and a desire to be with Tutankhamun in his hour of trial, Ankhesenamun suddenly began to realise what she had done. Here she was – several days journey out of reach of the comforts of her everyday life, set down amongst dangerous and hostile mountains, each rock potentially harbouring death. Why had she done it? This very moment she could be sitting on the terrace at home, sipping cool wine, and watching the birds winging home before the dark.
“I have come,” she told herself, “to see that my husband is not driven to his death by these reckless fools.” She well knew that when boys were trying to prove their manhood they often lost all sense of proportion and caution. She looked at Tutankhamun, exhausted from the journey, yet strutting about ordering food and wine, prepared to carouse all night to prove something to the Hittites, not remembering for an instant that he would need all his wits about him in the morning. As she watched the wine sacks emptying she knew the elder princes of Hatti were deliberately wanting to make the young King drunk, wanting him to fail in the morning. Whether they intended his death or just his disgrace she was not sure, but suddenly she realised that this was not a game; this was a dangerous situation and if she did not do something to help her husband she might not have him much longer. Zannanza had wisely slipped away to bed, refusing wine. But Tutankhamun – challenged by the Hittites – was determined to outdrink them.
Ankhesenamun slipped aside to where the provisions were kept and quietly slit open the wine skins and prized off the stoppers of the flasks. Into the dark earth flowed the precious liquid, Ankhesenamun saying a prayer for her husband as though it were a libation to the gods.
When more wine was called for there was no more to be had.
* * * *
Mursilis and Hattusilis were up at dawn ready to start, while Tutankhamun was still fast asleep. Ankhesenamun was just considering letting him sleep on and keep them waiting when he stirred and opened his eyes.
“Senamun,” he said drowsily, still under the influence of a half-finished dream. “Do you think I will live the day out?”
“Why not, my Lord?” she said, though she too had wondered just that. “You have hunted before and you will hunt again.” She had intended to carry his quiver of arrows as she often did when he went after wildfowl – but he would not let her.
“You must not come with us,” he said, rising. “You must wait here.”
“I will come, my Lord.”
“No. You must stay.”
“Is that what the Hittites want, my Lord? Or is it your own wish?”
He did not reply at once. He was splashing cold water from an alabaster bowl into his face.
“My own wish,” he replied firmly, properly awake at last.
“It is not my wish,” she said sharply.
“In this you must obey me,” he said. “It is too dangerous.”
“I can shoot an arrow as well as any man!”
Nefertiti had seen that her daughters learned many skills most people considered not suitable for women. “When it comes down to it,” she used to say, “one can rely on no one but oneself. Learn to look after yourself. No one else can do it as well.” There were times at target practice when Ankhesenamun had outshot Tutankhamun. But she had never killed. She had never shot at a living creature.
“I know you can,” he said. “But it will shame me to have my nurse at my side.”
“Surely not nurse, my Lord!”
“There are times you forget you are my wife, Senamun, and treat me like a nurse does her child. Last night for instance. I could have handled more wine.
“I emptied the wine as a sacrifice to the gods, my Lord – as priestess – not as nurse. I prayed for your safety today. Later you will thank me.”
“I thank you now,” he said a little wryly, putting his hands to his aching head. “Senamun . . .” he paused. His face was momentarily anxious and afraid.
“What is it, Lord?”
“Nothing.”
She took him in her arms and kissed him. They could hear the Hittites talking loudly and impatiently outside the tent. They were eager to be off, and, though they spoke in their own language, a certain note in their laughter made Tutankhamun think they were jeering at him and expecting him to back out of the expedition.
He pulled away from her and strode out of the tent. At twelve years old he was tall for his age. He was certainly more of a man than when he married her, but his shoulders were not even as broad as those of Zannanza and his waist was as narrow as a girl’s. She knew she could not go with him – yet he needed her.
* * * *
The brothers insisted that the four of them went alone. No beaters. No trackers. No guards. No fall-back safety precautions. It was clear that Tutankhamun and Zannanza must face the ordeal alone if they were to prove themselves. The elder brothers showed no sign of fear and were scornful when it was suggested that they should not go alone.
“If the King of Khemet needs his army to hunt a lion, let him bring his army,” Mursilis said with a curl to his lip. “We hunt alone in Hatti.” After that Tutankhamun could not bring himself to order the guards to accompany him.
They travelled a long way from the camp, the two men leading, the boys following somewhat unwillingly behind, silently in sympathy with each other and gathering strength from each other, though no words were spoken between them.
The burning orb of the sun rose higher and higher in a sky as blue and as clear as sapphire.
“Incomparable Aten, Father of my father, Lord of the Horizon . . .” whispered Tutankhamun, the words of a prayer to the Aten he had learned in the nursery rolled over and over again in his mind like pebbles in a stream. He was not even aware of them. It was as though one part of his mind was thinking them while quite different words were chasing each other in other parts of his mind. He did not know if he was more afraid of death or of disgrace. For a great king it had to be disgrace. Death would bring him immortality, but if he were disgraced he might fall back into the Void and cease to be. Indeed, it would be as though he had never been – for there would be no memories.
Such terror seized him at this thought, he hurried away from the others and hid behind a rock so that they could not see him shaking. He had never really thought about his life until this moment. The events of each day had occurred and he had experienced them – but he had never taken a step back and wondered who he was and “why” he existed at all. He had never noticed Life itself – nor pondered how peculiar, precious and mysterious it is. Now – when he thought he might lose it – he began to value it.
Worried suddenly that the others might suspect he was hiding because he was afraid, he pulled himself together and emerged – walking as casually as he could – adjusting his kilt.
It was almost noon before they came upon the lions. The place was like a natural amphitheatre with a flat area, almost circular, covered with tough bushes and ochre-coloured dry grass. There was a thorn bush, bare of leaves, the long white thorns very visible, to one side. Surrounding this almost completely were huge tumbled chunks of red rock at the foot of an arc-shaped hill. In the sparse shade of the thorn tree a lion and lioness were lying at ease, two newly born cubs playing at their side. In the absolutely still air the smell of the human predators had not reached them.
Tutankhamun went rigid and cold. Not only was he afraid, but he had no wish to kill these beautiful and peaceful beasts. He thought to say as much to Mursilis and turned to where he had been a moment before. But Mursilis was not there.
As though they had pre-arranged their strategy, Mursilis and Hattusilis had taken up positions on the rocks overlooking the drama about to be played out below them, leaving the two startled and unprepared boys on the same level as the lions. Then, simultaneously, they loosed an arrow each and killed the cubs. With a roar of rage the big male rose to his feet, turned and saw the young intruders fumbling to fit arrows into bows. He sought no further for the enemy and leapt forward. Tutankhamun loosed his arrow first and it struck home but did not seem to slow the massive beast down. Wild with anger and pain it sprang towards Zannanza. Tutankhamun tried to throw his spear but it fell short. Terrified, but seeing what danger Zannanza was in, he picked up a rock and hurled it with all his might. It struck the male in the eyes and for a moment blinded him and deflected him from his path. Seconds later the spears of the elder Hittite princes found their mark, and with a sound that curdled Tutankhamun’s blood, the king of beasts fell dead at their feet. Zannanza was backed against a rock, white with fear, his small iron dagger held out in front of him ready to plunge it in to his attacker if need be.
But all was not over. The lioness who had been attending, heartbroken, to her cubs while her mate sought vengeance on the brutal murderers, had now turned to see what was happening.
As the two elder Hittites were congratulating themselves on their kill, the lioness sprang at Tutankhamun.
When Ankhesenamun heard the story later she could not believe that two such experienced hunters as Mursilis and Hattusilis had forgotten the dangerous presence of the lioness, and indeed had not shot the cubs deliberately to create a situation in which the two boys would be killed. Tutankhamun’s courage and presence of mind had probably saved Zannanza’s life, for his brothers’ spears might well have been too late for him. Now, in his turn, Zannanza probably saved the life of Tutankhamun. The lioness was upon the King when Zannanza leapt upon her and drove the dagger home.
At this moment a new factor entered into the situation.
An hour after the party had left in the morning, Ankhesenamun had had such a premonition of disaster that she had disobeyed her husband and sent trackers and guards out to follow him. If they had not arrived at the moment of the lioness’s desperate leap and taken over from the young Hittite prince, both he and Tutankhamun might yet have died. In the confusion Mursilis and Hattusilis managed to appear busy, but one at least of the trackers was not taken in, and reported back to Ankhesenamun that when they came upon the scene, the two elder Hittite princes were not lifting a finger to help the King, while the younger was risking his own life.
All day Ankhesenamun paced about the camp. She wished a hundred times she had gone with the men she had sent off to find Tutankhamun. But she had been stung by his reference to her as “nurse” and did not want to shame him in front of those hard and cynical men. As the first star appeared and the evening fires were lit to keep off the night chills and the marauding nocturnal beasts, she was almost frantic. What if the guards had not found him? What if they were all separated and lost somewhere in this wild terrain? What if . . .? Her thoughts ran on and on and though she prayed to every god she knew her agitation did not abate.
At last she heard a rock slipping on a nearby knoll and rushed to get a better view. In the rapidly dimming light she could make out a column of figures approaching and rushed towards them, scuffing her toes on rocks until they bled, tearing the fabric of her skirt on thorns.
When she was near enough she saw that the guards at the front of the column were carrying the bodies of two lions, a male and a female. Mursilis and Hattusilis walked beside them and, when they saw her, brandished their bloodied spears triumphantly. But she scarcely noticed them. Her eyes were scanning for her husband.
At the rear, trackers bore two makeshift stretchers, and on them lay the two young boys.
Though she had as yet been told nothing Ankhesenamun knew it all. With a scream she rushed at Mursilis and Hattusilis and, cat-like, drove her nails into their faces.
“Wear these scars!” she shrieked. “And never forget that you will pay for this!”
Astonished, the two men fended her fury off with their arms.
“Lady! Lady!” they shouted. “Your husband is alive. His attacker is dead. Why do you treat us so?”
Sobbing, she turned away from them and flung herself on Tutankhamun, covering him with kisses.
“I’m all right,” he whispered hoarsely, in quite considerable pain. “The dagger . . .” he muttered. And she saw he was clutching the iron dagger in his hand. It was covered in blood. She looked across at Zannanza, surprised.
The young prince was very pale, but he nodded.
“He saved my life,” he said. “The dagger is his.”
The Sacred Egg of Ra
By the time Tutankhamun was sixteen the court had long since left Akhetaten, the Horizon of the Sun’s Disc, and Akhenaten’s beautiful city was falling into ruin. From the palaces and the great houses of the officials and nobles everything had been stripped, either by the owners themselves when they moved away following the court of Tutankhamun, or by looters who moved in as soon as the flotilla of ships carrying the King left the quayside. Within moments of the palaces and houses being left they became like dead carcasses, prey to scavengers. As surely as a man’s soul leaves his body at death, so does the life-force, the soul, of a building depart as soon as a decision is made to desert it. Nothing was left of Akhetaten – the vibrant, musical, happy city – but dry stones that could not hear or speak.
The city’s death had been as sudden and dramatic as its birth.
Not much more than twenty years before, the whole area had been semi-desert, a level plain, walled in the east by a ridge of mountains and bordered in the west by the river. Akhenaten, fired by his dream to start a new life and a new religion uncorrupted by centuries of misunderstanding and misrepresentation, had chosen to build his new capital there. He had set up his boundary stela and within months the foundations were laid and a vigorous workforce guided by eager and talented artists and architects had created a glittering city, pure and virginal, and ready to house his great ideal.
Ankhesenamun and Tutankhamun had grown up in this city among lush gardens fed by canals, in light and airy palaces, tiled with green and flowery scenes. They had stood beside the King, the Divine Channel of the Aten, in the great Sun Temple and presented offerings to his god. They had swum in the lakes; sailed on the river; played ball in the vast gardens.
After the bloody riot when a restless population had been stirred up to a frenzy by the cunning of the first prophet of Amun and had done unthinkable deeds in the fair city, Horemheb had extended a long, hard hand and kept such a grip on the city that he virtually squeezed all the life out of it.
For the first two years of Tutankhamun’s reign the court remained nominally at Akhetaten, though the actual time the young King and Queen spent there was very little.
Ankhesenamun suspected it was Ay, who had long held power in the royal circle, and could not easily be overthrown, who kept Akhenaten’s religion going for a while. In Tutankhamun’s name the other gods were reinstated throughout the country, but the worship of the Aten was not at first forbidden as Akhenaten had forbidden the worship of Amun in his last years.
The Aten, a god symbolised by the disc of the sun, had not been an invention of Akhenaten. It had existed as a divine force since ancient times. Initially all that Akhenaten did was to bring it to the fore as Hatshepsut had brought forward the already existing god Amun. Later he became more and more convinced that he could only free his people from the dark hold of a corrupt and powerful priesthood by insisting that they should have no other gods but the Aten, and no other High Priest but himself. In the last years he had been locked in a struggle to the death with the priests of Amun.
They had won. He was dead. And within three years his religion was declared anathema, his city dismantled, his name hacked out wherever it was found, his successor told that his father had been a force for evil and he must publicly disassociate himself from him.
Horemheb finally clamped down on the worship of the Aten when a group of dissidents toppled a newly carved statue of the god Amun from its place in the courtyard of the great Temple of Amun at Ipet-Esut. No one saw it happen and no one knew who had perpetrated such blasphemy, but in the earth beside the fallen god the sign of the Aten was crudely scratched — the sun’s disc with the long rays of the sun ending in hands holding the ankh, the sign for eternal life.
He persuaded Ay that the time had come to end any allegiance to the Aten.
“If we let the cult co-exist at this stage,” he said to Ay when he protested at the severity with which the General intended to enforce his decision, “we are inviting disorder and chaos. Later, when the cult has no strength, we can allow the Aten to have priests again.”
The priests of the Aten fled, as recently the priests of Amun had done.
The court shared its time between Men-nefer in the north and Waset in the south, and the city of Akhetaten became a ghost town, haunted by memories and inhabited by the poor who could not leave, wild dogs and jackals, and an occasional ragged priest in hiding who would not give up his faith in the pure light he had been inspired to see under Akhenaten’s guidance.
Such a one was Hapu, a member of an illustrious family. He was named after his great-grandfather who had been a high official at the court of Djehuti-mes IV, indeed had been instrumental in insuring that that king had come to the throne over other claimants.
It was his great-grandfather Hapu who had persuaded the most influential priests and officials to use a dream the young prince had as a sign from the god Ra-Harahkti that he was to be king. The story went that Prince Djehuti-mes was out hunting on the plain of Giza, and there at noon he had lain down to rest in the shade of the huge head of the sphinx. He was soon asleep and dreaming. It seemed to him that Ra-Harahkti appeared to him in the form of a great sphinx and told him that if he were to clear away the sand that had blown over his body for centuries and reveal his form again to the world in its full glory, he, the prince, son of a minor wife of Amenhotep II, would become Pharaoh of the Two Lands.
Troubled, the prince had told the High Priest of Amun-Ra, Hapu, about his dream. Hapu advised him to obey the god and clear the sand away from the sphinx. This he did.
At the next great festival when the statue of the god Amun-Ra was being carried in procession, a dramatic, and apparently divine, intervention in the course of history occurred. The priests carrying the golden god in his golden solar boat stopped the procession beside the young prince. They claimed later that they had been impelled to do this by the god himself. In spite of their efforts to prevent it the statue tipped three times towards the young prince before it “allowed” the procession to move on.
Prince Djehuti-mes was named royal heir on the strength of this and in due course became Pharaoh. He erected a stela between the paws of the sphinx to commemorate the event. Hapu was not forgotten and he and his family enjoyed considerable royal favour. The same Hapu’s son, Amenhotep-son-of-Hapu, was responsible for most of the great and beautiful buildings of the next Pharaoh, Neb-Maat-Ra, Amenhotep III, grandfather of Tutankhamun, and was indeed so close to the throne and so brilliant in everything to which he put his mind, that the Pharaoh allowed a statue of him to stand in his own “Mansion of Millions of Years” to insure that he would accompany him throughout eternity. Only Imhotep the architect of King Djoser nearly two thousand years before had been granted such a privilege.
The young Hapu who now lived in the shadowy ruins of Akhetaten, had once been an honoured priest of the Aten, one of Akhenaten’s most dedicated converts. He interpreted the instructions given to the prince by the sphinx to mean that any true pharaoh must clear away the dead matter that is obscuring the true meaning of a revelation from the Divine, and reveal it to the world. To him this was exactly what Akhenaten had set out to do and he, Hapu, was not about to abandon that mission just because it had become difficult and dangerous.
Day after day he greeted the rising of the Aten’s orb, praying to Akhenaten himself who, though dead, was still the channel through which Hapu believed the god would communicate with the earth. He placed flowers and what food he could find in the dying city on the appropriate altar in the Temple of the Aten. Akhenaten had built an altar for each day of the year and although Horemheb’s soldiers had desecrated them, Hapu found a way to clear and consecrate them again.
One night he thought he saw the figure of Akhenaten passing his open door. He leapt up from his bed and rushed out into the street. A full moon illuminated everything with an eerie silver light. The figure of a man was just disappearing round the corner of the street. Hapu told himself it could not be his king because his king was dead, but nevertheless he felt impelled to follow. What if it was the ka of his king?
When he reached the corner the figure was just passing round a further corner. And so it went on for some time. Hapu became more and more determined not to lose sight of the man, more and more convinced it was not just one of those men who had remained in Akhetaten after the court had left. It was almost as though the man paused deliberately at each corner to make sure that Hapu was following him before he went further. The distance between them was too great and the light too uncertain for him to be sure it was the king, but the overall shape of the figure was very similar. Yet more than the shape, Hapu felt the king was calling him to follow him.
They came eventually to the deserted palace and passed through the empty hole where once the hinged gates had been and the guards had called out their challenge. This night there was no one to bar his entrance and he passed straight through.
At this point the figure he had been following disappeared. Hapu ran down the cracked path in the direction he thought he saw him go, but there was no sign of him. Frantically Hapu ran hither and thither through the neglected garden and then climbed the steps and entered the palace itself. Even though it was now only a shell he felt nervous. What presumption to enter the “house of the king”! Although Hapu knew that Tutankhamun was now Pharaoh – he could not come to terms with it. Akhenaten was his king and always would be.
He almost tiptoed through the halls and corridors and courtyards, passing through the shadows of the columns of the colonnades, pausing beside the lily ponds that were now too dry for lilies, touching with awe the beautiful tiled walls the vandals had not smashed.
Suddenly a shadow moved and Hapu came to a stop, his heart skipping a beat.
“Who is there?” he asked hoarsely, his voice sounding huge and echoing in the empty building. Shafts of white light were coming through the high window slits and falling like the Aten rays across the courtyard he was now in. He began to tremble. The atmosphere seemed highly charged. More silent than silence. He felt strange – as though he was drifting off from himself.
There was no answer. The shadows were still again. With his heart pounding he took a step forward. And then another. And another. Cautiously he moved towards the place where he thought he had seen the movement.
How strange that it was so very dark in this corner. Suddenly he nearly fell forward and stopped himself just in time. The paved floor had given way to a hole. Cautiously he knelt down beside it and felt its rim with his hands. He could see nothing in the pitch darkness but he could feel a step below the level he was on.
“Stupid!” he thought. It was not so strange after all to come upon steps in the palace. The building was built on many different levels.
Carefully he moved forward again, feeling the edge of each step with his toes before he trusted his weight to it. The stairs were narrow and steep and went down a long way. He could feel the walls close on either side. The place reminded him of a tomb.
At last he reached the bottom and it seemed to him he could just make out a faint greenish glow somewhere off to the left. Thankful that at last he could see something, however indefinite, after the pitch blackness of the stairwell, he made for the glow. He found that it was coming from a crack beneath a door. He was now so anxious to know what could be causing it, he could not have stopped had a thousand spirits from the dead barred his way. With trembling and sweaty hands he pushed at the door. It swung open and he was suddenly almost blinded by brilliant green light.
He stood amazed – blinking and rubbing his eyes.
In a small chamber with no windows, on a black stone plinth, was a huge green crystal egg emitting powerful and beautiful rays of green light. There was no one or no thing else in the chamber. There was no lighted torch or lamp to be reflected from or through the crystal to explain its light.
Ancient texts about the green Egg of Ra came to his mind – the green Egg from which the Sun-bird hatches – the green Egg from which all living things are born.
He fell down on his knees in awe.
The green Egg of Ra was not part of the Aten worship and yet it was here now in the heart of Akhenaten’s palace. Hapu could not understand it.
He felt himself impelled to bow to the ground. The cold dusty stone pressed on his forehead.
Rays of incredible light seemed to be penetrating his body. He felt that in some way he was being skewered by light shafts. Fear and bewilderment were getting in the way. He knew he was experiencing something immensely important yet he was struggling to free himself from it, terrified of being taken over by something he did not understand.
“I’m not ready,” he whispered. “Please . . . please . . . give me time . . .”
The intensity of the rays seemed to lessen. It was as though he had been held and was now being released. He slumped forward full length on the stone floor.
He lay there for a long time, too afraid to open his eyes.
At last he felt calm.
“Now, my Lord,” he said aloud in a steady and reverent voice. “I am ready.”
He lifted his head. He lifted his body.
He saw nothing but the moonlight falling through the open door of his sleeping chamber. On the table was the familiar flask of water and the papyrus rolls he had managed to rescue from the House of Life before it was destroyed by the soldiers.
He pulled himself to his feet for he had been lying face down on the floor of his chamber. He stared around him.
He was shocked and disappointed. It had all been so vivid. Surely it could not have been only a dream?
* * * *
When the day dawned he hurried to the palace. He passed through the broken gates unchallenged. He attempted to find his way back to the stairs leading to the underground chamber. He hurried through corridors and halls and courtyards. He retraced his steps many times when he thought he had taken a wrong turn. The palace was flooded with sunlight now and everything looked so different. He felt himself to be lost in a labyrinth.
At the end of the day he was exhausted and had not found what he was looking for.
He spent a sleepless night tossing and turning on his narrow bed, fitfully watching the open door and hoping that the mysterious figure of the previous night would return to lead him.
Day after day passed. Hapu could settle to nothing but his search for the green Egg. He became desperate, obsessed. He neglected the rituals of the Aten he had so carefully kept up after Horemheb’s decree. He slept little and ate almost nothing. He had never been so sure of anything as he was that he had not dreamed the green crystal egg. He cursed himself for being such a coward that he had refused to accept whatever it was that was about to happen to him that night.
At last he thought he had found a solution to his problem. If he could only speak with Queen Ankhesenamun, the last remaining daughter of Akhenaten, a young woman who had lived many years in the palace at Akhetaten and, as the King’s wife, probably knew many of its secrets. If anyone alive could tell him if there was indeed a hidden crypt under the floors of the palace where the green Egg of Ra was kept and where it was, it would be she. Those who had built the palace might know of the crypt, but he had no idea who they were. They were probably this very day busy working on buildings to the honour of Amun-Ra, and if he came to them asking questions about the palace at Akhetaten, he might well be arrested. That the green Egg had not been sent back to Yunu, the great temple at the centre of the Ra cult, indicated that it had not been found by Horemheb’s men. That it was hidden underground and not displayed in one of the major halls or in the temple itself, indicated that Akhenaten had wanted it kept secret.
But why?
The more he thought about it, the more questions came crowding into his mind.
He felt very strongly that the experience he had had – and bungled – had been of great significance. The ka of the pharaoh had led him to it and had expected something of him regarding it. He had let him down by fear and hesitation and it seemed he was not going to be given a second chance.
It would not be easy obtaining a private audience with the Queen, but he was becoming increasingly convinced that doing so was his only hope of solving the mystery.
* * * *
There were no longer boats or barges drawn up at the quay at Akhetaten. Tall masts no longer bobbed and swayed. Men no longer shouted, heaving heavy loads on and off the decks. In the city’s heyday this was a busy place, a place where children gathered to watch the stir of arrival and departure; a place where crowds pushed and shoved to get a better view when some great official arrived from afar. He himself had taken up a vantage point, interested to see how they heaved the huge slabs of stone for the temples off the barges and on to the land. Now the only boats that came to Akhetaten were the boats of those who came to despoil it. The stone, that had been brought here with such effort, was now being taken away to build some other temple to some other god. The huge pylons were already dismantled, the filling rubble all that was left as the facing slabs were removed. Akhenaten’s beautiful reliefs and inscriptions would be smashed up and used themselves as filling for other pylons. Hapu feared it would not be long before the paving stones and floor tiles of the palace were taken and the secret flight of stairs leading to the green crystal egg discovered. He felt so strongly that he had been led to it for some good reason, that he was determined to find it before others did.
This determination drove him to seek passage on a barge going south to Waset, loaded almost to the point of danger with shattered pieces of alabaster from the northern palace. Some of the smaller, finer pieces would no doubt be made into bowls or jars, others into statues of Tutankhamun and the gods. The larger pieces would be infill or maybe trimmed and smoothed for re-use as building blocks. Sometimes the broken inscriptions and reliefs were left intact if the blocks were to be buried face down to make a floor. Hapu sat on a pile of blocks at the stern, his fingers tracing the beautiful words of Akhenaten’s love for his sole and solar god, the Light beyond all light, the progenitor beyond all progenitors.
“Ah, my king,” he whispered. “If I can serve you yet I will give my life. Speak to me. Tell me what I must do.”
The heavy craft turned slightly into a bend in the river, the men heaving on the rudder. A large block of white calcite from Hatnub caught the sunlight where before it had been in shadow. Hapu’s eyes were drawn to it. There he saw the familiar scene of the royal family basking in the rays of the Aten, hands at the end of each ray holding out the ankh, the sign of eternal life, to the mouths of each one of the royal family – Akhenaten, Nefertiti and their six daughters. It must have been carved before Maketaten died. Now the faces of Akhenaten and Nefertiti and most of the princesses had been hacked out, but the figure of Ankhesenpaaten was still clear and perfect. No chisel had fallen on her.
“I am doing the right thing,” Hapu thought joyfully. “This is surely a sign that she will help me.”
He had debated with himself for several days before he had started this journey. Ankhesenpaaten was now Ankhesenamun. Was this political necessity only or were the new King and Queen really behind the savage reaction against all their father’s teachings? He must be careful how he broached the subject no matter how many “signs” he was given. Although he was prepared to die for Akhenaten, he would rather stay alive and bring back honour to his Pharaoh’s god.
When they arrived at Waset he slipped off and melted into the crowd. He was no longer dressed like a priest of the Aten, but he could not be sure someone might not recognise him. He was disappointed to learn that the Pharaoh and his Great Royal Wife were at present in Men-nefer in the north. It would be a long while before he could talk to her. He was almost in despair and wishing that he had stayed at Akhetaten and spent the time prising up paving stones.
But then he decided that this apparent setback was to his advantage. There was no way as a private citizen he could gain access to the Queen, unless he was allowed by an official, one of the “Nine Friends of the King”, or close council, to attend the court with a petition. But if he succeeded in this, he would have to speak out before everyone – officials, nobles, priests, and probably Vizier Ay and General Horemheb as well.
It would be better for him to wait for the Queen’s return, and prepare a more devious way of reaching her.
* * * *
Hapu was lucky. Before the next new moon Ankhesenamun was back at Waset. A new wing of her grandfather’s palace at Per-Hay was ready for the young couple and the Queen had indicated her desire to be there. Now that she was pregnant Men-nefer did not please her. It was too hot and crowded – the pace of life too fast. In normal circumstances she found it stimulating and exciting – the most cosmopolitan of all Egyptian cities. It was near the fertile lands of the delta and the vast estates of the nobles who served at court. It was also the centre from which and to which travellers from the east came and went. But there never seemed a moment when Tutankhamun was free to be with her. Occasionally they went fowling in the nearby marshlands, but lately even that had become too rare an event. Day after day administrative business had to be taken care of. Tutankhamun no longer sealed documents without reading them, nor accepted everything Horemheb or Ay told him without question. She tried to persuade him to come south with her to the quieter town of Waset, to their grandfather’s palace where they had had many a happy time in their youth. Tutankhamun was tempted, but resisted. He said she should go ahead and he would follow when he could.
The first time Ankhesenamun had carried a child she had been indifferent to it. But this time she felt the future stirring in her womb and was excited by it. She showed no sign of her delight however, and Tutankhamun, seeing her so pale and heavy, was glad she was going to a more restful place.
Without the King in residence Per-Hay was indeed a quiet retreat. Ankhesenamun was soon bored and finding the days dragging too slowly by.
One early dawn, after a restless night, she was walking in the garden when she heard a murmuring from behind a clump of bushes. She paused to listen for a while and gradually became convinced that what she was hearing was Akhenaten’s hymn to the Sun, spoken low but with great feeling.
“Being afar off, yet thy rays are upon the earth. Thou art in men’s faces, yet thy movements are unseen. When thou settest in the western horizon, the earth is in darkness after the manner of death. The night is passed in the bedchamber, heads covered, no eye can see its fellow . . . Every lion is come forth from its lair and all snakes bite. Darkness is illumination while the earth is in silence, their maker resting in his horizon.
The earth grows bright, when thou hast arisen in the horizon, shining as Aten in the daytime . . .The Two Lands are in festival, awakened they stand on their feet, thou hast lifted them up. Their limbs are cleansed, clothes put on, and their hands are upraised in praise at thy glorious appearing. The entire land does its work. All cattle are at peace upon their pastures. Trees and pasture grow green. Birds taking flight from their nest, their wings give praise to thy spirit. All animals frisk upon their feet. All that flyeth or alighteth live when thou arisest for them. Ships fare north and likewise fare south. Every road is opened at thy appearing. The fish in the river leap before thy face . . .”
She crept silently nearer and then, with a sudden increase of pace, rounded the cluster of bushes.
She found there an emaciated young gardener bowing to the east, his head resting on the earth, his hands stretched out ahead of him. Her shadow falling on him, he instantly stopped what he was doing and looked up, real terror in his eyes.
“You may well be afraid,” she said. “Do you not know that that hymn has been banned and no one may think of it – let alone say it aloud?”
The young man knelt in front of her with his head sunk on his chest.
“I know it, Majesty,” he whispered.
“You could be imprisoned or sent to work in the mines. You could even be executed.”
“I know it, Majesty,” he replied.
“Why do you risk these things for a few words?”
He was silent.
“Why?”
“They are not just words, Majesty,” he said in such a low voice she had to bend down to catch them.
“Indeed?” she said, and looked at him very hard. He was a gardener but his hands were soft and white like those of a scribe or a priest. She had the impression she had seen him before.
“What is your name, priest?” she asked quietly. He looked up at that and in seeing his eyes she knew that indeed she had seen him before at Akhetaten in the Great Temple.
“Hapu, Majesty. Priest of the Aten.” He answered this time aloud, and with pride.
She looked quickly over her shoulder to make sure that they were still alone.
“You take great risks, Priest of the Aten,” she said sharply.
“I know, Majesty – but my life is of no value in itself. It is only in carrying out the wishes of the Aten that it has any significance.”
“Why are you here? In what way are you carrying out the wishes of the Aten by pretending to be a gardener?”
She wondered if she should call the guard, but he looked so frail she was sure she would be able to knock him down herself if he intended any mischief.
“I intend no harm to your Majesty,” he said. “I have something I need to tell you.”
“Speak then. Quickly. For soon there will be others in the garden.”
“I saw your father, Majesty.”
She looked at him – startled.
“I swear it was not a dream,” he said quickly. “He passed my house and I followed him. He led me to the palace.”
“What palace?”
“The Great House at Akhetaten.”
“Akhetaten is dead. My father is dead.”
“I know, Majesty. But I still live there – and I saw your father.”
“You are insane. How could it be my father? How could it possibly be my father?”
“I don’t know, Majesty. Hear me out.”
She nodded. Her lips were tight closed. Her eyes dark and intense. She was gazing into his as though she would draw his soul out through them like an embalmer draws out the brain of the deceased.
He told her exactly what had happened that night. When he was describing the green crystal egg and the secret chamber he was watching her expression as closely as she was watching his. He could see that she was intrigued, but he could also see she had not known of it before. He was bitterly disappointed and wondered if he had risked his life for nothing. What if the whole thing had been only a dream after all?
They could hear someone approaching down the path beside the lily ponds.
She put her finger to her lips.
“Don’t leave the palace,” she whispered, “until I’ve had a chance to talk to you again.” And then aloud she said, “These bushes must be cut back. I want more colour here. Find me some colourful flowers.”
He bowed low, and then they parted.
* * * *
Ankhesenamun thought a lot about what Hapu had told her, swinging from disbelief to conviction that what he believed had happened, had indeed happened. It was not unknown that the souls of people walked the earth after they were buried. She pondered and pondered who might possibly know something about the presence of the Sacred Egg and decided the only one might be Nezem-mut, the sister of Nefertiti. They had all suspected that Nefertiti had secrets from Akhenaten in the last years. Some believed she had other lovers, but she herself believed they were more connected with forbidden magic. If anyone had brought the green Egg to Akhetaten, it would not have been Akhenaten, but Nefertiti. But why should he be so concerned someone should find it?
Ankhesenamun had never been very close to her Aunt Nezem-mut, and was not sure now how to approach her on the subject. She had always lived in the royal palace and had been part of the royal family’s life since Ankhesenamun could remember, but she had been strangely disengaged from it. She had been there to confide in, but no one had felt compelled to confide in her. Ankhesenamun herself did not even like her. She was heavier in build than Nefertiti and sometimes wore a very sullen expression. In some ways she had blossomed since her beautiful sister’s death, appearing frequently with Ay and Horemheb as though she was party to their decisions. Ankhesenamun had often wondered why she was not married with children of her own. Nefertiti’s younger daughters had always been something of a preoccupation with her and she was incensed when she suspected Ankhesenamun had sent them away. Indeed she was not the only one. Horemheb had tried to find out where they were, but so far Ankhesenamun’s vehement insistence that they were dead had been accepted, if not believed, by Ay and Horemheb. Nezem-mut was not so easily convinced however – and there was no doubt there was very bad feeling between the two royal women.
How could she approach her? Ankhesenamun knew there would be no way Nezem-mut would condone the continuing practice of the Aten liturgy. Hapu must be protected from her.
* * * *
“I had a dream,” Ankhesenamun said to Nezem-mut while they were sitting together on a cool terrace watching the sails go by on the river. They were in Nezem-mut’s quarters – her aunt somewhat surprised by her sudden visit. “I dreamed there were secret passages and rooms under the floors of the Great Royal House at Akhetaten.”
Nezem-mut said nothing but continued to gaze out at the river. Her face was slightly turned away and Ankhesenamun could not read her expression. A servant padded softly up to them and refilled their wine bowls.
“I wondered if there was any truth in the dream,” Ankhesenamun continued, disappointed that her first statement had drawn no response. And then, when there was still no reaction she decided to be more direct. “What do you think? Do you know of any such passages and chambers?”
“There are always parts of any building that are kept private,” Nezem-mut said. “Ay, and of people too,” she added silently, her mind occupied with her own thoughts.
“But there was a chamber I saw – in my dream – deep under the earth, that had no access. The floor above the stairs that led down to it was paved over. It was sealed over like a tomb.”
“Perhaps it was a tomb,” Nezem-mut said casually. “A secret lover murdered . . . an unwanted infant . . .”
“A huge green crystal egg . . .” Ankhesenamun added pointedly.
This at last brought a reaction. Nezem-mut’s expression changed and she looked directly at her niece.
“You saw a green crystal egg?”
Ankhesenamun nodded.
“A huge one. Like the one that used to be in the Temple of the Sun at Yunu.”
Nezem-mut was looking so piercingly at her now, her expression so stern, the young Queen decided to retreat a little.
“The dream had probably no significance,” she said placatingly. “Some dreams mean nothing.”
“You saw it?”
“Only – only in my dream. Do you think there is such a thing in the Great House?”
Nezem-mut did not answer.
“I thought father had had the Sacred Egg from Yunu destroyed. He certainly ordered it.”
“If he ordered it to be destroyed, then it was destroyed.” Nezem-mut’s voice sounded strange. She was speaking one set of words, but was thinking another. “Amun-Ra probably gave you the dream so that you could bring to light the infamy of the heretic and blasphemer who gave such orders,” she said.
Ankhesenamun bit her lip. This was not her intention and she was sure it was not the intention of the ka of Akhenaten when he appeared (if he appeared!) to Hapu. Strange how Nezem-mut, who had been such a close member of the family, should go along so vehemently with Horemheb’s lie.
“Why would it appear in my dream so precisely in a hidden place in the palace – if it had been destroyed?”
“Who knows,” Nezem-mut shrugged. “Dreams give only hints and clues – often bizarre. They lead us to find truth for ourselves. They do not give it to us direct.”
“Nezem-mut is wiser than she appears,” Ankhesenamun thought, “but I know she knows something about the Sacred Egg.”
“Do you think mother . . .?”
“No,” snapped Nezem-mut before she could finish her sentence. She stood up. “Enough of dreams!” she said. “We both have things to do.”
Ankhesenamun looked at her. She was definitely agitated though she was trying to hide it.
“If you know where the secret hiding place is, surely . . .”
“There is no secret hiding place! There is no Sacred Egg! Your dream was given to you purely to remind you of your father’s infamy. The Sacred Egg of Yunu was the most precious possession of the sun god. Through it the earth was renewed – reborn. If it were found intact that would be the greatest event of Tutankhamun’s reign. It would cause rejoicing throughout the world. It would wipe out all the desolation and sorrow caused by your father’s actions and restore the Two Lands to pre-eminence. The souls of our dynasty would stand before Osiris in the Judgement Hall unstained by Akhenaten’s crimes against the gods . . .”
Nezem-mut’s voice was growing stronger and louder every moment almost as though she were on a platform before a crowd – or speaking with the voice of an oracle.
“She knows where it is. She knows!” Ankhesenamun thought. “Why is she pretending?”
Nezem-mut was pretending because she wanted more than anything in the world to find that Egg. With that one act she would insure her place in eternity and in the affections of General Horemheb whom she adored. She had a good idea where it might be if it still existed and if the dream was a true dream. Nefertiti must have brought it to Akhetaten secretly without Akhenaten’s knowledge. In those last years she did many things against her husband’s precise instructions. Perhaps she feared the destruction of the Egg was going too far. Perhaps she foresaw a time when the full and ancient worship of the sun god Ra would be restored and they would have need of it. Who knows what was in her devious mind. Nezem-mut both loved and hated her sister. She was a complex and disturbing character – a woman with powerful strengths and powerful weaknesses. “But she is dead,” Nezem-mut told herself exultantly. “And I am alive. My time is still to come.”
Ankhesenamun could see that there was nothing more she could glean from Nezem-mut at this stage.
“If she knows where it is,” she thought, “she will go to it. I’m sure of it. And when she does either Hapu or I will be there.”
* * * *
Hapu returned to Akhetaten as soon as the Queen told him what she suspected about Nezem-mut. She told him to wait and watch and never leave the palace. But when he was there he found he could not remain idle. He started tapping all the paving stones in the building with a heavy stick – listening intently – hoping to hear the difference in tone that would tell him the area beneath the floor was hollow.
As he did so from dawn till dusk his mind wandered on to many things. Queen Ankhesenamun herself was a puzzle to him. He had seen her before at Akhetaten when her father and her mother were alive. The other princesses were warm and friendly and full of fun – but Ankhesenpaaten had always seemed to be apart from them – cold and distant. He had been afraid to approach her – yet this time she had made him feel at ease. She had heard him speaking the hymn to the Aten, yet she had not called the guard. Was it possible that she, who had seemed so bored and impatient with all the Aten rituals when she was a child had now, when it was forbidden, taken up its cause?
The river flowed past the stricken city of Akhetaten as it always had, the sun rose and set. “Only people change,” Hapu thought. “Only people pretend to be what they are not.”
One day, resting from his labours and feeling considerably discouraged because of the lack of progress, he was sitting on the river bank watching some water weed drift by when a heron that had been standing on a rock nearby, motionless, suddenly flew up with a startled flurry, then winged away to the north barely skimming the water with its long, grey, arrow-like body. Hapu turned his head to see what had frightened the bird and saw a boat from the south drawing in to the deserted quayside. He had been so absorbed in his thoughts he had not even noticed its approach. He watched curiously, sufficiently distant from the activity to be sure he was not noticed – an undistinguished figure sitting on the bank, his legs dangling over the water, half hidden by some reeds.
The boat was unlike those that came to take away the building blocks. It was small and neat, of the kind used by nobles and high officials, with a cabin made of woven papyrus stalks. He withdrew a little further behind the reeds, but made sure he had a clear view of the vessel.
There were two men crewing and they were first off, tying the boat to the quayside, putting a long plank in place for the passenger or passengers to walk across. Then came two children. No. Not children. Dwarfs. Hapu caught his breath. There were two dwarfs often seen with the Lady Nezem-mut. They were among her personal attendants and she rarely went anywhere without them. They had been in her employ for many years.
Hapu waited excitedly for the Lady herself to emerge – but she did not. The dwarfs waited patiently on the quayside while the sail was stowed and the boat was made safe, and then they called out some instructions and one of the crew members returned to the cabin.
“Now she will come out!” thought Hapu. But the sailor returned with only a large box, awkward in size, but obviously not heavy. It was handed to the two dwarfs, who each took hold of a handle and began to move off. Hapu scrambled up from the river and followed them, keeping a safe distance, darting and dodging, convinced now that they had been instructed by the Lady to fetch the crystal egg. Of course, she would not have come for it herself! For her, or any of the royal family, to be seen visiting the forbidden city, would have been to risk too much. It puzzled him at first that she should have sent two men so unmistakably part of her entourage, but then he understood that she would have to send someone whom she could totally trust. If questioned no doubt they would say that they had been sent back to fetch something their mistress had left behind by mistake.
It was interesting she had not told Horemheb. If she had he would have been here already with soldiers standing by to escort the precious object back to Yunu. She was behaving as secretively as whoever it was who had hidden it in the first place.
The men did not walk straightaway to the palace. They wandered about the city commenting on this and that, remembering the golden days when their mistress was the sister of the Divine Nefertiti. They looked frequently over their shoulders and Hapu got the impression they were making sure they were not being followed before they turned towards their real goal. He had to use all his cunning and his considerable knowledge of the nooks and crannies of the crumbling city to keep out of sight.
At last they stopped their deception and entered the Great House. Like a shadow Hapu followed them, padding on bare feet over the dusty tiles.
It seemed they had been given clear instructions, for once inside the building they walked quickly and surely towards a particular place. Hapu was chagrined to notice that they stopped where he in fact had intended to work that very day. If only he had not sat dreaming by the river that morning he might have found what he was looking for before they did.
From the box they took a few tools and with sure and determined action prised up the paving stones. Hapu was amazed to see how strong and muscular these small men were. The heavy stones were shifted with apparently very little effort.
Hapu hid behind a pillar and was in an agony of indecision. What should he do? His dream had been proved to be a true dream, but someone else other than himself was taking possession of the sacred crystal. Why had Akhenaten come to him and led him to this place unless he wanted him to take possession? What did this secrecy on Nezem-mut’s part mean? Would Akhenaten disapprove of her finding it? Should he make himself known to the men, knock them down and take the Egg? If he had the Egg what would he do with it? Akhenaten had ordered its destruction, and then in the form of a wandering ka he had asked him to find it. But he had not told him why! He had not told him what to do.
Hapu began to feel that surely the intention was for him to destroy it. Perhaps Akhenaten had felt that it was because this powerful focus of the ancient religion still existed – and indeed existed at the centre of the Aten cult – in Akhenaten’s very House – that the religion of the Aten had been undermined and destroyed. Hapu began to feel more and more that the Sacred Egg of Yunu had to be smashed to pieces as Akhenaten had originally commanded and that is why he, the last loyal priest of the Aten, had been told to find it – and indeed had found it.
* * * *
The two men lit a lamp they had also taken from the box and disappeared into the hole they had made. Hapu waited a while and then ventured forward and peered over the lip. At first he could see nothing but the first few steps, and beyond that total darkness – but then he saw a flicker of faint light. The lamp was being carried down a side passage and the light was reflecting off the wall at the end.
Hapu seized the heavy bronze crowbar left behind by the men and, with beating heart and not much thought, climbed down the stairs. They were much narrower and steeper than he remembered in his dream. At the bottom he heard a strange noise. The men were talking and the sound of their voices came back to him as hollow and wordless rumbling. He was fired with eagerness to reach the Egg and destroy it before it could be taken away. He believed now that destroying it would topple Amun-Ra from his pedestal and bring back the clear, pure light of the Aten. He believed he had a sacred duty given him directly by the ka of Akhenaten to perform this act.
He hurried down the passage in the direction of the sounds and the flickering of faint lamp light.
He came to the chamber where the two men were and stood in the entrance looking in. The great crystal Egg was there on its black plinth as he had seen it – but it was much smaller than he remembered it – and it did not glow with green light. The only light in the chamber was from the earthenware lamp laid down on the floor in one corner.
The men had their box open and were pulling out some lengths of finely woven linen – no doubt to wrap the Sacred Egg in so that it would not break when they were carrying it up the stairs. They looked up, startled, as he loomed in the doorway.
“Stop!” he commanded and held up his hand. He had never felt so powerful. He towered above the small men in the chamber. He gripped the heavy metal crowbar in his right hand.
For a moment it seemed as though he had stopped time itself. Everything was still. Even the flame of the lamp burned steady and straight.
It was the elder of the two men who spoke first, shattering the illusion.
“Who speaks thus to the companions of royalty?”
“I speak with the authority of the Aten, the Living Sun.”
The man’s lip curled.
“Stand aside in the name of Amun-Ra. You are hindering the work of those commanded by the god himself.”
“By the Lady Nezem-mut!” Hapu corrected him scornfully.
The two men glanced at each other briefly and then moved forward on either side of the plinth, watching Hapu like a cat watches a mouse.
He stepped forward and brushed one aside with an imperious gesture. He had not intended to hurt the dwarf but the man went flying across the chamber and landed against the opposite wall with a scream.
Hapu barely paused. He was filled with zeal. He saw nothing of the Egg’s great beauty – thought nothing of the ancient wisdom that it represented. He saw only that it was the enemy. Generations would bless him for this! His pharaoh and his god would gather him to their side and heap rewards upon him! The hated power of Amun-Ra would be destroyed forever!
And then – it seemed to him as he gazed into the crystal that it flared up like green fire and became huge. It filled the chamber with blinding light. He covered his eyes with one hand and struck out blindly with the other.
At that moment the second dwarf flung himself at his legs and toppled him to the ground, while the other started to kick his head. As suddenly as the light had come it went, and he was no longer a superhuman avenger facing a supernatural enemy, but a thin young man lying on a dusty floor being kicked and pummelled with amazing ferocity. He flailed out with his crowbar, but could not make contact with his agile assailants. From his position on the floor the weight of his weapon was a disadvantage and it soon fell from his hand as he tried to protect his face and head from the merciless blows. No words were spoken. With silent efficiency and extraordinary strength Nezem-mut’s familiars reduced him quickly to unconsciousness.
As he fell into darkness it seemed to him he saw the face of Akhenaten looming out of the shadows behind them. He appeared to be peering down at him, sadly. He had failed, and no one knew what ills would result from Nezem-mut’s possession of such a powerful cult object.
That's the end of the sampler. We hope you enjoyed it. If you would like to find out what happens next, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual online bookshops or through www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
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Moyra Caldecott was born in Pretoria, South Africa in 1927, and moved to London in 1951. She married Oliver Caldecott and raised three children. She has degrees in English and Philosophy and an M.A. in English Literature.
Moyra Caldecott has earned a reputation as a novelist who writes as vividly about the adventures and experiences to be encountered in the inner realms of the human consciousness as she does about those in the outer physical world. To Moyra, reality is multidimensional.
Titles marked with an asterisk are available or forthcoming from Mushroom eBooks. Please visit www.mushroom-ebooks.com for more information.
FICTION
Guardians of the Tall Stones:
The Tall Stones*
The Temple of the Sun*
Shadow on the Stones*
The Silver Vortex*
Weapons of the Wolfhound*
The Eye of Callanish*
The Lily and the Bull*
The Tower and the Emerald*
Etheldreda*
Child of the Dark Star*
Hatshepsut: Daughter of Amun*
Akhenaten: Son of the Sun*
Tutankhamun and the Daughter of Ra*
The Ghost of Akhenaten*
The Winged Man*
The Waters of Sul*
The Green Lady and the King of Shadows*
NON-FICTION/MYTHS AND LEGENDS
Crystal Legends*
Three Celtic Tales*
Women in Celtic Myth
Myths of the Sacred Tree
Mythical Journeys: Legendary Quests
CHILDREN’S STORIES
Adventures by Leaflight