Akhenaten (10 page)

Mutnedjmet was in her early forties, beautiful, slim, her honey-colored eyes gleaming with intelligence. I felt in her presence a distance that could not be readily crossed. Mutnedjmet is the daughter of Ay and Tey, and sister of Nefertiti. She lives in a private suite in Ay's palace. She never married, though she had several suitors. Why this should be remains a great mystery. The moment I sat before her and spread my papers she began to talk.

It was destined that we take part in the tragedy of the heretic. My father Ay was chosen to be his teacher, and through him we heard about the prince's peculiar ideas. From the very beginning I did not think well of him. I doubted his sanity, and in time I was proven right. Nefertiti, on the other hand, took a different stand. I had always known that she had an insatiable craving for
attention. She would often whip up storms from trivial arguments just to entertain herself. Yet I was still surprised when she declared her opinion on the ravings of the crown prince. There is no question that she had a brilliant, astute mind. But her most virulent flaw was that she was incapable of being sincere. Thus she renounced the worship of Amun and replaced him with Aten. Indeed, she renounced all the gods and declared her faith in a god that we had never heard of before.

“Father,” I overheard her say one afternoon, “tell the crown prince that I believe in his God.”

“Don't be foolish,” Father cried. “You do not realize the gravity of what you are saying.”

I was afraid that her heresy would bring a curse upon us. My faith in my gods was never shaken. Yes, I declared my faith in the new god, but only out of necessity. After all, I was related to the pharaoh's family. Besides, I thought that I could probably defend my gods more effectively from within than if I had been cast out. But you must understand that my faith never faltered. Never.

I saw the heretic for the first time on the thirtieth anniversary of King Amenhotep III's rule. His physical appearance was as distorted as his ideas. Hideous and sickly, that was how I found him from the beginning. Don't believe what you heard about Akhenaten and Nefertiti's noble love. Nefertiti and I were raised together. I knew her too well to believe that that repulsive, effeminate creature had anything in common with the man of her dreams, whom she had longed for since we were young girls in our father's palace.

During the Sed festival, Nefertiti's true nature came out—a trained whore, exposing her beauty without shame. I remember she tried to get the attention of Haremhab, but he rejected her banality. When I was invited to perform before the king and queen, I danced with the dignity of a decent young woman from a noble family. Then I chose a song praising our great pharaoh:

As for Nefertiti, she appalled the audience with an obscene dance; of course she won the admiration of some vile spectators. To make matters worse, she sang like a born and bred whore:

My father's head dropped in shame, and my mother stuttered before the censuring eyes that demanded an explanation. Even the professional entertainers whispered to each other in disbelief. That night, when we
returned to our palace, I was certain that Haremhab was the subject of Nefertiti's dreams. She hoped that in the morning he would come knocking on her door. But destiny had yet to treat us, and indeed all of Egypt, to a momentous surprise. Nefertiti was invited to meet Queen Tiye. When she returned from the palace, she was Akhenaten's betrothed.

“Shouldn't the crown prince strengthen the succession of the throne by marrying a princess with royal blood?” I asked my mother.

“If the pharaoh has accepted the prince's intended bride knowing that she is not royalty, then it can't be important,” Mother replied. “Remember, the pharaoh himself didn't marry a princess.” Then she kissed my forehead tenderly and whispered, “Be patient, Mutnedjmet. There is no question that you are superior to Nefertiti in every way. But when fate is in command, we become helpless spectators. Try to be content with your lot. After all you will be the queen's sister, nothing short of a princess. You must not forget that your fortune will come to you inasmuch as you are loyal to your sister.”

“Thank you for the advice, Mother,” I replied firmly, “but I have enough wisdom to realize my new obligations. My loyalties, however, will not change.”

Later, Nefertiti and I talked privately. “Are you really fond of him?” I asked.

“And who might you be referring to?” she teased.

“Your future husband, of course.”

“He is a miracle among men,” she replied enthusiastically.

“As a man, too?”

“There is no separation between the man in the priest and the priest in the man.”

I knew what she was thinking; I could always read her mind. She would share the king's throne as queen and priestess, and gratify her lust elsewhere. And she carried through her decision, encouraged by her husband's impotency and his policy that abolished punishment. I learned about Akhenaten's perverse sexuality through my daily visits to the harem. There they knew facts that remained hidden from the closest of his men. It was the women of the harem who exposed the sinful relationship between the king and his mother, the only woman in whose embrace he was able to overcome his impotency. The Great Queen was both his mother and the mother of his daughter. Our country had never known such evil before. I knew then that I was destined to witness the darkest time in the history of Egypt. I vowed that I would always stand with the truth wherever it may be.

Amenhotep III died and Nefertiti became queen of Egypt and the empire. We lived some dreary days in Thebes, before moving to Akhetaten, the most beautiful city the world has known. It was magnificent in Akhetaten at first. Our days were full of joy and comfort. The gods gave the heretic a respite and paved the way for his success, but only so that he could indulge further in sin. Hence Amun was able to avenge himself just at the moment when Akhenaten thought that his god was victorious.

“Where are the gods?” I asked my mother in a moment of privacy. “Why don't they do something?”

“Mutnedjmet, this is a sign that the new god is the true one,” she replied, much to my surprise.

I stared at her in disbelief. I felt as though the world I knew had come to an end, and that a new one was replacing it. But fast as it had come, the sweet dream Akhenaten had created began to fade, and the clouds of gloom rumbled on the distant horizon. In time, the grip grew tighter on Akhetaten.

“This is Amun venting his anger at last,” I said to my father.

“You sound like those malicious priests.”

“Tell me, Father, what really is your duty in a time like this?”

“I don't need to be reminded of my duty, Mutnedjmet,” he replied irritably.

I asked Nefertiti once, “Will you not do something to defend your throne?”

“We do our best to serve the throne of the One God,” she replied. I was not convinced by her enthusiasm.

You must not think that she spoke out of devotion. When it came to loyalty, Nefertiti was utterly lacking. She was merely afraid that if she warned her husband of the consequences of his stubbornness he would withdraw his trust from her and choose another woman to share his throne. During my attempts to talk some sense into Akhenaten's men, I discovered that Toto, the chief epistoler, had secretly harbored a loyalty to Amun. Toto became the middle man between me and the high priest of Amun. It was absolute torment. I had to choose
between my family and my country and gods. By joining the priests' camp I risked the peace in my family, and even my own safety.

“The high priest wishes to win the queen to our side,” Toto said one day. “He asked for your help.”

“I have tried, believe me. You don't suppose I waited for the high priest to tell me something so obvious. Nefertiti, I admit, is no less foolish than the heretic.”

The high priest convinced Queen Tiye to visit Akhetaten. When her attempts were to no avail, he came in person to deliver his last warning to Akhenaten's men. Toto did not agree with the high priest. He favored an unannounced raid upon them. “Set the heathen city on fire,” he declared.

I so much wanted to win Haremhab, chief of security, to our side. He had insuperable power in Akhetaten. Since he had a reputation for being utterly candid, I was quite direct with him. I found, however, that he was very cautious. Perhaps he did not trust me, just as I did not fully trust him at first. Indeed, I had to discuss things with him several times before I became confident that he was in agreement with us. I waited until civil war loomed over Egypt.

“We must reassess our strategies,” I said. Haremhab looked at me curiously, and I continued, “We cannot let Egypt burn to ashes.”

“Did you not speak to your sister?” he asked cunningly.

“She speaks the king's tongue. They are both insane.” My frankness startled him.

“What do you advise?” He appeared keen.

“Anything is permissible if it will save the country,” I replied.

Mutnedjmet continued after a moment of silence. “It was truly a tragedy, even greater than the invasion of Egypt by the Hyksos. You must have heard several times how it all ended. Akhenaten was insane; unfortunately for all of us, he inherited the throne of Egypt and used it to exercise his morbid impulses. I place more blame on Nefertiti, for she is not lacking in reason. But she wanted only to nurse her ambition and cultivate more power. When Akhenaten's glory began to fade, she abandoned him just like that. She even tried to join his enemies; perhaps she hoped to be queen of the new throne. Look at her now, buried in dark solitude, bitter and full of regret.”

Meri-Ra's face was a prelude to the sadness inside him. His skin was bronzed by the sun. He was slim, rather tall, in his mid-forties. He lived alone in a small house, with no companions or servant. Meri-Ra was once the high priest of the One and Only God in Akhetaten, the city of light. I visited him in his town, Deshasha, two days north of Thebes. When he read my father's letter he asked me, smiling, “Why do you take such a burden upon yourself?”

“To find out the truth,” I answered.

“It is good to think that there is one person who seeks the truth,” he nodded. “Perhaps I was the only one who was driven out of Akhetaten by force. I refused to abandon my king. The voice of God was silenced, the temple was destroyed, but destiny has yet to have its final word.” Then he gazed at me with his sad brown eyes and began his story.

I was fortunate to have been among the prince's closest companions from boyhood. Akhenaten and I were greatly drawn to mystical themes. We studied the religion of Amun together, as well as Aten. Like many of our peers, I was enchanted with his charm. I admired his sensitivity and insight. He was a remarkable theologian. He blessed me with the words that later conquered everyone's heart: “I love you, Meri-Ra. Do not withhold your love from me.”

His love penetrated my heart and spread to my soul. He often invited me to join him in his place of retreat on the western side of the palace by the Nile bank, an awning supported on four columns and surrounded by lotus and palm trees. Its floor was lush grass, and in the middle there was a green mat and a cushion. Akhenaten would wake up in the darkness of the early morning hours. When the golden sun emerged behind the fields, he sang to Aten. His sweet voice still echoes in my ears, and intoxicates me like the smell of holy incense:

When the sun had risen, we wandered blissfully in the garden. “There is no joy so pure as the joy of worship.” His face glowed. But even then, Akhenaten's life was not free of pain. His failure in military training embittered him. “My father will not forgo his desire to make me a warrior, Meri-Ra,” he complained. Then he looked in the gold-framed mirror and said, “Alas! Neither beauty nor strength.”

The death of his older brother Tuthmosis left him with a scar in his soul. Only a deeper wound, the death of his beloved daughter Meketaten, made the pain of his childhood loss bearable. How he cried for his brother. Death became a mystery, a terrible question that confronted him mercilessly.

“What is death, Meri-Ra?” he asked. I remained quiet, avoiding the conventional answers he detested. “Even Ay does not know,” he continued. “Only the sun rises again after it has gone. Tuthmosis will never return.”

Thus was the eternal war he waged on weakness and grief. He set himself on a path, like the rays of the sun, promising a bright day every morning. Then one beautiful morning I met him in his place of retreat. He was rather pale, but there was something about the fixed gaze of his eyes that made him look fearless.

“The sun is nothing, Meri-Ra,” he said without returning my greeting. I did not understand what he meant. He
pulled me down beside him on the straw mat and continued, “Heed my words, Meri-Ra, for I speak the truth. Last night I was intoxicated with ecstasy. The darkness of the night was my companion, so intimate, like a lovely bride. I was entranced with longing for the Creator. And there, across a thousand visions, the truth revealed itself to me, more apparent than anything seen with the eye. I heard a voice sweeter than the scent of flowers: ‘Fill thy soul with my breath,’ it said. ‘Renounce what I have not granted thee’. I am the Creator, I am the stream from which life flows. I am love, peace, and joy. Fill thy heart with my love, quench the thirst of all the tortured souls on earth.”

He was radiant with excitement, dazzling.

“Do not fear the truth, Meri-Ra,” he continued, “for in the truth you will find happiness.”

“What splendid light,” I murmured breathlessly.

“Come, live with me in the truth,” he urged me.

I sat upright. “I am with you, my Prince, until the very end.”

Akhenaten became the first priest of the One and Only God. He became my teacher and spiritual guide, eager to answer my questions even before I asked. One day I said, “I believe in your God.”

“Rejoice!” he cried. “You shall be the first priest in his temple.”

Akhenaten declared his new faith to a few of his close companions. When he married Nefertiti—and he delighted in marriage—he was most pleased that she, too, believed in the One and Only. He did not begin the denunciation of other deities until later. During his
father's rule, Akhenaten did not have the power to do what he liked. Later, when he became king, his attacks came progressively. At first he renounced all the deities. Then he abolished their worship, confiscated the temples, and allotted their patrimonies to the poor. In Akhetaten I became the high priest of the One God. When my king decided to close the temples, I warned him, “You are challenging a power that has prevailed through the ages and across the land, from Nubia to the sea.”

“The priests are swindlers,” he said confidently. “They live off propagating superstition in order to exploit the poor and extort their daily bread. Their temples are brothels, and there is nothing they hold sacred but their carnal desires.”

I discovered then that within his feeble body Akhenaten possessed a power that no one had guessed at. His courage exceeded that of Haremhab and Mae, who had reputations for bravery. To everyone else he was an enigma, but to me he was as clear as the sun. He exhausted himself in the love of his God and devoted his life to the service of the One and Only, regardless of the consequences. I did not find his performance during the memorable tour of the empire surprising at all. Nor was I surprised that he kept to his message of love and peace even in the most extreme circumstances. He dwelled in the expanse of God's empire and lived by his command. For Akhenaten, the shrewdness of politicians and the power of military men was of no significance. It was only the truth that concerned him. They accused him of living an illusion, and of madness.

The truth, however, was that they were the ones who
dwelled on the illusions of a corrupt world; they were a raving mob. Indeed the throne was the least of his concerns. I remember how he became morose when he was summoned from his tour to claim the throne after his father died. “I wonder if the duties of the throne will keep me away from my God?” he asked sullenly.

“But my King,” I replied eagerly, “it is but a divine purpose to put the power of the throne in the service of God, as your forefathers have done for their false deities.”

“You speak the truth, Meri-Ra.” He appeared relieved. “They sacrificed the lives of poor peasants to their gods. I shall slay evil and offer it to my God. Thus I shall be God's instrument to break the shackles of those who have no power.”

He ascended the throne to fight the most fierce of wars. He fought for the happiness of people, as his God commanded him. During that war he proved that he was stronger and more enduring than Tuthmosis III.

He proclaimed his religion in the provinces. People were exhilarated. They received him with flowers and love.

He was determined to renew every day the faith of his own men, those who were closest to him. They would stand before the throne, and when they had finished discussing the affairs of the nation with Nefertiti, Akhenaten would talk with them about religion, so that he was certain that they were deserving of God's bounty.

Meri-Ra was silent for a while. He heaved a loud sigh then continued.

Then clouds of grief came, one after the other, driven by winds of spite, within the country and from outside. Each man faced up to them according to the strength of his faith, and although some of them faltered, my King was not distraught. “God will not let me down,” he said. One day in the temple he asked derisively, “My men advise me to be moderate, and my God commands me to uphold the faith. Whom should I follow, Meri- Ra?” The question required no answer.

Haremhab came to meet me in the temple when matters were at their worst. “You are the high priest of the One God, Meri-Ra, the closest of all men to the king,” he said.

“It is but a gift from God, bestowed upon his servant,” I replied, anticipating what he was about to request.

“The situation demands a change in policy,” he started.

I replied firmly, “Heed only the voice of God.”

He frowned. “I hoped we might have a reasonable discussion.”

“Only true believers are capable of a reasonable discussion,” I replied.

When I learned about the men's decision to abandon the king under the pretense of protecting his life, I said to Ay, “I cannot accept a return to heathen ways.”