“Haremhab,” he said, “those who will cooperate with me must declare their faith in the One and Only.”
“My dear Pharaoh, you know my position regarding all gods and religions. Nevertheless, I am a man of duty and a servant of the throne. I therefore declare my faith in the One and Only out of loyalty to your throne and to the country.”
He smiled. “That should be enough for the time being. I do not wish my palace to be without you. Perhaps one day you will be blessed with true faith.”
So I started a new life in the service of a new god and a new king. I served them with a loyalty drawn only from my sense of duty. But I must admit that the king revealed new powers I was not aware he possessed. Despite his physical feebleness and feminine appearance he challenged everything that came his way. He fought against the most powerful and resourceful men, the priests. He destroyed the old traditions that had been rooted in our country for hundreds of years. He even fought sorcery and potent witchcraft. Nefertiti, too, revealed herself to be a true queen, as if she had been born with the sole purpose of emulating the greatness of Tiye and Hatshepsut. She was the one who ran the affairs of the kingdom while the king devoted his time to his religious calling. Unfortunately, Nefertiti seemed to believe in the new religion. So much has been said about this woman, and I despise hearsay. But I must admit that her faith remained a mystery that needs to be solved. Sometimes I did not doubt that she was a true believer; at other times I could not fathom her. Did she feign piousness to strengthen her position as queen? Did she mean to encourage her husband to become more immersed in religion so that she could become the sole ruler of the land and the subjects? Was she merely a tool in her father's hand for some mysterious scheme? The priests tried to warn her, but she did not respond to them, with the result that their concern turned to spite. They were convinced that Akhenaten was weak, and they could not imagine that he was capable of challenging them. Because of that, they accused Tiye of being the source of his ideas, and blamed his stubbornness and persistence on Nefertiti. That, I believe, is nonsense. They can point their fingers at whoever they want, but I have no doubt that this foolishness was the product of Akhenaten's own mind. By moving to the new capital, Akhenaten declared war on all the deities.
He became a missionary, preaching his religion throughout the provinces. We so much enjoyed the blissful days of victory and peace that I imagined that this young, feeble king was capable of demolishing the structure of life as we had always known it, and building it anew according to his designs. I followed in awe his eloquent conquests of the provinces and the frenzy with which the people received him. I felt that a new kind of power had possessed him and that he excelled in exercising it. But at the back of my mind there was always a hint of doubt that this new world that was being created so quickly could last. Could order be achieved by the exercise of love alone? What were we supposed to make then of what we had experienced in the long life of our country? On one occasion Nefertiti said to me, as if she could read my thoughts, “He is inspired. God has blessed him with divine love. We shall be victorious and God will be by our side.”
One time I sat alone with the minister Nakht, casually drinking wine. I believed, and I still do, that Nakht was a persuasive politician. I asked him, “Do you really believe in the One and Only, the god of love and peace?”
“Yes,” he replied calmly, “but I don't support the seizure of other deities.”
I was relieved. “A compromise then? Did you counsel the king?”
“Yes. He thought it heresy.”
“And Nefertiti?”
“She speaks his tongue now,” he said sorrowfully.
Then Haremhab told me how peace and happiness eventually turned to a promise of destruction. Again, he did not add to what the high priest or Ay had already told me.
At that point I tried to advise Akhenaten. “We must change our policy,” I said. But he rejected every proposition I made that hinted of any compromise. The challenge seemed to inspire him even more.
“We must go ahead with our holy war until the very end,” he said. “And there shall be no other end but victory.”
Then he patted my shoulder gently and continued, “You must not share with the wretched ones their love of misery.”
When the condition of the country continued to deteriorate I wished once more that I could kill him, this time out of love and loyalty. It became clear that what I thought was an incredible power in his feeble body was in reality a raging madness that must be curbed. The queen mother visited us when things were at their worst, and summoned me to her palace in the southern quarters of Akhetaten. “Perhaps you will succeed where we have failed,” I said.
She stared at me intently, then asked, “I trust you have advised the pharaoh of the changes you thought necessary to rectify the situation.”
I had heard how Tiye interpreted any hesitation preceding an answer, so I replied quickly, “I suggested, Your Majesty, a change in the country's home and foreign policies.”
She seemed relieved. “This is what I expect from a loyal man like you, Haremhab.”
“He is my king and my friend, as you now, Your Highness.”
“Will you promise me, Haremhab, to remain loyal under any circumstances?” she asked, gazing straight into my eyes.
I thought quickly, and replied, “I promise you my loyalty regardless of the circumstances.”
It was clear that she was relieved. “They are asking for his head. You have the power to keep him safe from harm. Sooner or later they will try to draw you to their side.”
I repeated my promise to remain truthful and loyal to the king. Indeed I kept my promise; to abandon him in Akhetaten was the only way to protect him. Tiye failed to dissuade him, despite all her powers of persuasion. She left Akhetaten, to die with her fears. When the grip tightened on the city, I was certain beyond doubt that the new god was incapable of defending himself, let alone his beloved chosen king. We drank the bitterness of isolation, and death loomed over and around us. Yet the pharaoh did not waver; if anything, he seemed more determined. The flame of his spirit refused to die.
“My God will never let me down,” he continued to say. Whenever I saw his face glowing with confidence, intoxicated, I became more certain that he was afflicted with insanity. It might have appeared a religious battle on the surface, but in truth it was sheer madness raging in the mind of a man born with a halo of perversity.
Then there was the visit of the high priest of Amun and his last warning to us. He grasped my hand firmly and said, “Haremhab, you are a man of many merits. Relieve your conscience of its burden and do what is expected of a man in your position.”
To tell you the truth, I admired the man for rising above any desire to avenge himself, and for his attempt to spare the country more woes. We asked to meet with the king. It was a difficult, painful, sad meeting. It was as if we were shrugging off our loyalty to a man who knew nothing but love, a man who created a wonderful dream from the sparks of madness and wanted nothing more than to share it with us. I advised him to decree freedom of worship and initiate an immediate plan to defend the empire from the attacks of the enemies on the border. When he refused I suggested that he relinquish his obligations as pharaoh and devote his time to his religious calling. We gave him time to consider our counsel. Then he appointed Smenkhkare a co-ruler on the throne, and although Nefertiti left him, he still persisted. We therefore decided to abandon him and make peace with his enemies to preserve the unity of the country. We made this decision only after agreeing that no one should harm him or his wife. I gave the oath before the new king, Tutankhamun. That was the last episode in the greatest tragedy in Egypt's history. You see what madness has done to our country?
Haremhab and I embraced the silence that usually accompanies endings. I began to gather my papers to get ready to leave. Then it occurred to me to ask, “Why do you think she left him? Nefertiti I mean.”
He replied without hesitation. “She must have realized tha
t his madness was now jeopardizing her own life, so she left his palace to save herself.”
“But why would she stay in the city? Why not leave Akhetaten with the rest of you?” He replied scornfully. “She was sure the priests considered her equally culpable in her husband's crimes.”
As I shook his hand to bid him farewell, I said, “How did he die?”
“His natural weakness made him incapable of bearing the defeat. His faith was shaken when his god forsook him. He fell ill for a few days, and died.”
“How did you receive the news of his death, Commander?” I asked after some hesitation.
“I have said all I have to say,” he replied stonily.
Bek
I met Bek, the sculptor, in his house on one of the islands of the Nile two miles south of Thebes. He lived in virtual isolation in a small but elegant house in the center of his modest farm. Bek was widely known to have excelled in his vocation above any other sculptor, but when our country was being rebuilt after the wars he was not summoned to participate as were many others of his standing. Bek was known for his loyalty to his former king, Akhenaten. In fact he was occasionally accused of being a heretic himself. Now he was almost forty years old, a strong, dark man, tall, slender, and full of energy. But his gaze was overcast by melancholy. He greeted me with a warm smile as he opened the letter that my father had given me. When he finished reading, he began.
Beauty and peace vanished when Akhenaten left our world, and I no longer find pleasure in color or in music. I first knew him when I was still a young boy learning the basics of my vocation at the school of my father, Menn, the sculptor of King Amenhotep III. One day a young boy, carried on a sedan chair, visited us at school. My father whispered to me, “The crown prince.”
I saw a lad of my own age, then, frail, unassuming, but with a piercing look. He seemed fascinated by the mere encounter of the chisel and the rock, as though it were a miracle. He came to watch and learn, and he engaged us in conversation with such friendliness that we soon forgot he was a member of the pharaoh's family. He continued to visit the school regularly, and we became friends. I was extremely happy with our friendship. My father took pride in our acquaintance and granted us his blessing.
“Akhenaten is a young boy with the wisdom of a man, my son,” my father would say.
Indeed he was. Even the high priest of Amun acknowledged his wisdom and his maturity at such an early age. The priests interpreted it as an evil force that had taken hold of Akhenaten. That was not true, Meriamun. The evil force dwelt in the hearts of the priests. My king knew no evil. Perhaps that was his tragedy. Once, when we were young men, my father was absorbed in carving a sculpture for King Amenhotep III, and Akhenaten was watching him as he worked with his assistants.
“Master Menn,” Akhenaten said, “you insist on all these traditional methods. I find them stifling.”
“Tradition is power, Your Highness. With tradition we can overcome the passage of time,” my father answered with pride.
“Every sunrise brings a new kind of beauty,” Akhenaten said ecstatically. Then he turned to me. “Bek, my friend, this sculpture may be beautiful but it will not be truthful. Where is the truth?”
Akhenaten lived for the truth, and because of the truth he died. From a very young age his soul was inspired with all that was mystical, as though he had been born from the womb of spirituality. He said to me once, “I am very fond of you, Bek. If you master your art I will entrust to you all matters of art and aesthetics when I become king.”
The truth is that I owe Akhenaten everything, religion and art together. First he taught me the religion of Aten, then he showed me the path of the One God. I was filled with peace when I heard him recite with faith and love:
The land is bright with thy light
And is no more in darkness,
O Lord,
Master of the universe,
Of heaven and earth,
Of man and animal,
O our Creator.
One day, as we were walking from the quarry to school, I said, “My Prince, I believe in your God.”
He was overjoyed. “You are the second believer after Meri-Ra; but our enemies will be plentiful.”
I learned later that Nefertiti had joined the faith at the same time, while she was still at her father's palace. Akhenaten used to talk to me occasionally about the difficulties he faced because of his religion. Despite my isolation in the quarry, I was able to acquire some understanding of the events that transpired.
It was from my father that I learned the fundamentals of my vocation, but Akhenaten gave me the spirit. He committed himself to the truth, both in life and in art. Because of that he provoked those who lived only for this transient life, those who swarmed around every banquet like vultures and crows.
“Bek,” he told me once, “do not let the teachings of the dead shackle your hands when you work. Let your stone be a harbor for truth. It is God who created everything, so be loyal to him in your representations. Do not allow fear or greed to influence your work. When you make a sculpture of me, let it show every flaw on my face and body so that the beauty of your work will be in its honesty.”
That was Akhenaten, who rejected the old ways and was fascinated by novelty.
He renounced the idols and pulled out timeworn tradition by the root. Akhenaten found ecstasy in truth.
When he became king, I declared my faith again before him and he appointed me first sculptor of the king. When God inspired him to build the new city and move his throne to it, I was in charge of eighty thousand workers, building the most beautiful city ever known, the city of light and faith, Akhetaten.
We built the largest roads, the finest palaces, and the most beautiful of gardens and ponds. It was an artist's masterpiece, but in the end it fell prey to the malice of the priests.
Bek remained silent for a while, unable to conceal his grief for his most cherished creation, which was now slowly vanishing into the dust of the earth. I, too, remained silent out of respect for him, until finally he continued.
Akhenaten was an artist himself. He recited poetry, painted, and even tried his slender hand at carving stone. I will tell you a secret that few people know. He carved a sculpture of Nefertiti that was by all standards an ideal of beauty. It may still be in the abandoned palace, or in Nefertiti's palace, or perhaps it was destroyed with everything else. When the queen abandoned him unexpectedly, he took out the left eye of the sculpture to express his disappointment, but left the rest of it intact as a token of eternal love.
The queen and Akhenaten were a symbol of the God who was father and mother in one. They were united by a deep love that weathered many storms. I still do not understand why she left him at the very end. Her enemies accused her of leaving the sinking ship. They said she wanted to find herself a place in the new nation. But she did not try to win anyone over after that. Of her own will, she remained isolated in her palace, until it became her prison. It was not true that she had been nursing her own interest. I believe that her faith might have been shaken when God did not come to their aid at the time of those painful events. In a dark hour she deserted both the throne and her religion. As for Akhenaten, he was determined until the end. How could he give up his faith when it was he who had heard the heavenly voice of God call him his dear son? After that Akhenaten could not hear any other voice, nor did he care for any other opinion or listen to anyone's advice as a person should when he seeks the truth. It was not he who was defeated, but us. I, too, had my doubts, particularly when they asked him to relinquish the throne, and even more when everyone abandoned him. I saw him once standing alone, calmly watching everyone leave. When he saw me approach he said, “You must go with them, Bek.”
“No one dared speak to me of this, my King,” I said agitatedly.
“But you will go,” he replied with a smile.
“I will remain by my king forever.”
“Bek,” he said gently, “you will go, whether willingly, or by force.
”
I remained silent for a moment, then asked, “My Master, can evil overcome?”
He seemed to disappear in his thoughts for a moment, then I heard him say, “Evil can never overcome. What we are witnessing is only a fleeting moment. Only death can keep us from seeing the truth.”
Then he began to sing:
You dwell within me, My Lord.
No other has known you
But your son Akhenaten.
You inspire me with your knowledge.
You are the power of creation.
In the same way that he never gave up his faith, he never stopped loving either. Even when he saw the pyramid he built destroyed, and saw his own men join his enemies and his beloved wife desert him without explanation, even then his heart did not know a moment of hatred or spite. He was above punishment; he had nothing but love for man, animal, and even inanimate matter. When he first took the throne, Egypt was a vast empire with loving, obedient subjects. He could have chosen to indulge in worldly comforts: women, wine, food. But he looked away from such temptations and gave himself to the truth, challenging the powers of greed and selfishness. So he sacrificed everything, without ever losing the smile on his face.
“Why don't you use force to defend love and peace?” I asked him one day after the seeds of evil had started growing.
He replied, “Vicious people and criminals always find an excuse to justify their thirst for blood, and I am not one of those, Bek.”
I will never forget his kindness when he sensed that I liked Mutnedjmet, his sister-in-law. He tried to pave the way for me to ask her hand in marriage. When she refused me he consoled me: “Do not be sorry, she is like a vulture waiting for her chance to attack.” I asked him what he meant, but he did not answer.