Akhenaten: Dweller in Truth by Naguib Mahfouz
“You must not warn them,” I said. “Do not go to Akhetaten. Let me and my forces take them by surprise and destroy them, so that justice will be done.”
Toto supported me enthusiastically, but the high priest opted for peaceful negotiations and ruled against any bloodshed. “Our losses are already insurmountable,” he said. “We do not want other complications.”
I understood the priest's misgivings. He feared that if he gave me permission to attack and I was triumphant, I would hoard the merit of saving the country, and thus have a strong claim to the throne. The high priest would then be faced with a powerful king, and would be unable to act outside the boundaries I set for him. Because of this, he decided to entrust the throne to the young Tutankhamun. Now they all circle like vultures around the throne—the high priest, Ay, and Haremhab. Nevertheless, Egypt is far better off today than it was during the heretic's reign. Akhenaten was left to die, bitter and alone. As for Nefertiti, she awaits her final day among the ruins of the heathen city.
Mae's silence announced that he had finished. “What about Nefertiti, Chief Commander? I should like to learn more about her,” I asked.
He answered dismissively, “A beautiful woman created to be a whore. Her course was charted so that she could practice her sport of seducing men, from the throne. Do not believe what you hear about her competence as queen. If any of it were true, the country would not have fallen during her reign into that pit of corruption and destruction. She too abandoned him at the last minute, when he had lost what little power he ever had. But she failed to climb onto the other ship in time.”
Maho
I visited Maho in his village in south Thebes. He was chief of police in Akhetaten during the time of Akhenaten. Now he subsisted on farming. Maho was forty years old when I met him, well built, with coarse features and mournful eyes. When he finished reading my father's letter he put his hands behind his head and remained in that position a while, collecting his memories. “The spring of joy dried up when Akhenaten left our world,” he started. “O Egypt, may the gods forgive you.”
I was merely a guard in the palace the first time Akhenaten addressed me. For someone of my status, to speak directly to the prince was like a dream. I often saw him from a distance in the garden. One morning he approached my post curiously, as though he had discovered for the first time that I existed. I felt myself turn to stone before him. He stared at me until I felt his gaze running with my blood and recurring with my breath.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Maho.”
“Where do you come from?”
“The village of Fina.”
“And your family's work?”
“Farming.”
“Why did Haremhab appoint you to the guards?”
“I do not know.”
“He selects his men on the basis of courage.” My heart jumped with happiness but I said nothing. “You are an honest young man, Maho.” I could hardly contain my joy. “Will you accept my friendship?” he asked.
“It is an honor I do not deserve,” I stammered, trying to overcome my daze.
“We shall meet often, my friend.”
Unbelievable as it may sound, that was precisely what happened between me and the crown prince the first time he acknowledged me. That was how Akhenaten selected his men. Indeed he spoke to me briefly whenever he saw me in the palace garden. I followed his life from afar. First I heard about his worship of Aten, then about the One and Only God. I often heard him singing beautiful hymns to his God. My heart was entirely open to him. It was as though his love was a spell that bound me to him eternally. I admit that I understood only a little of what he said. For a long time I was rather confused by this mysterious, invisible god of his, who loves people and does not punish them. I did not stop believing in Amun, but I believed in the other god, too, because of my love for Akhenaten. He was the most compassionate of people. He harmed neither man nor beast, never stained his hands with blood, and never judged anyone, regardless of what harm they did. When he ascended the throne after his father's death, he summoned me, and said, “I shall not force you to do anything you do not wish to, Maho. You will earn a living, whatever happens. Do you want to declare your faith in the One and Only God?”
“I do, my King, and I declare my readiness to die in his cause,” I replied without hesitation.
“You will be chief of police,” he said calmly, “and no one will ask you to lay down your life.”
I was prepared to fight the priests, even though I had been taught to love and respect them since I was a young boy. Yet for all the time I worked in Akhenaten's forces, I never struck at anyone—except once, and then I acted without his permission.
“From now on,” he said to me the day of my appointment, “let your weapon be like an ornament. Discipline people with love, the way I taught you. Remember, what love cannot cure, fear will not correct.”
Whenever we captured a thief we simply retrieved what he had stolen. Then, we sent him to work on the plantations and taught him the words of love and peace. When we caught someone who had killed, we sent him to work in the mines. There, too, they learned about the new religion, when they were not working. Many times we were betrayed in return for our generosity, but Akhenaten never lost heart. “Soon you will see the tree of love heavy with fruit,” he insisted.
Akhenaten spent his day praying in solitude, and singing his hymns at the temple. Then he spoke to the people from the terrace of his palace. He and Nefertiti rode through Akhetaten in their royal carriage. They were never accompanied by guards. Sometimes they got down from the carriage to greet the masses of people that gathered around them. The old traditions that had separated the common people from the pharaohs were no longer exercised. Wherever they went, they called for the love and worship of the One and Only God.
One morning a young man in my force reported, “I heard troublesome whispers among the elite.”
It was the beginning of the end. Corruption spread among the civil servants, the peasants suffered, and rebellion swept the empire. Deception and malice flowed with the water of the Nile. I feared how grief might affect the king, but in fact the turbulence made his enthusiasm and determination grow. He was confident of victory. He never doubted that love would prevail, as though the darkness had descended only to usher in a greater light. In those dismal days, the priests sent a criminal to take the life of the king. He lurked in the darkness of Akhenaten's retreat, and would have succeeded had I not stopped him with an arrow in his chest. My King then realized the extent of the danger. He became increasingly sullen, staring into the face of the criminal as he gasped his last breath. “You did your duty, Maho,” the king said reluctantly.
“I will sacrifice my life to save my King,” I said.
“Couldn't you have captured him alive?” he asked in the same tone.
“No, my King,” I replied honestly.
He said sadly, “The priests conspired to commit a wicked crime; they failed, and we have fallen into evil.”
“Some evil can be fought only with the sword,” I replied.
“This is what they have always said, since before Menes united the two kingdoms. But did they overcome evil?” Then he cried, as though suddenly inspired, “Await the time when East and West shall be seen in one outpouring of light.”
But the light did not come. Things continued to deteriorate. Men revealed themselves to be hollow ghosts. They fell away like dried leaves yielding to the autumn winds. They had neither faith nor loyalty. They distorted the truth and held fast to falsehood until the last minute. They abandoned him under the pretense of protecting his life.
Haremhab ordered me to leave Akhenaten with my men. I was unable to dissuade him. I was not permitted to see Akhenaten once before I left, not even to say good-bye.
I returned to Thebes with a heartache that has never left me to this very day. I was relieved of my duties, as were many of his loyal men, and returned to my village to mourn him. I received n
How could such a beautiful dream end so quickly?
Why did God forsake him? What meaning is there to life now that he has left us?
Maho gave in to his grief and remained silent. I, too, sat silently, respectful of his sentiments. When a moment had passed, I asked him, “How would you describe Akhenaten in a few words?” He seemed startled by my question. “He was the pure essence of sweetness and benevolence. But I cannot say more about him than the facts I have told you.”
“And Nefertiti?”
“She was beauty and brilliance combined.”
I prompted him after a moment's hesitation. “So much has been said about her.”
“I can tell you, as chief of police, that I did not have a single incident recorded against her. I did, however, notice the lustful looks that Haremhab, Nakht, and Mae gave her. But I can assure you that she didn't encourage anyone to overstep their boundaries.”
“Why do you suppose she left him?” He seemed bewildered. “It is a mystery I have failed to understand.”
“It seems to me that you have stopped believing in your king's god.”
“I no longer believe in any god.”
Nakht
Nakht was from an old, noble family. He was in his forties, a man of average height and a fair complexion flushed with a tint of rose. He was strikingly composed, more so than any other person I have met. He was the minister of Akhenaten's chamber. He did not occupy a position in the new era, but he was summoned occasionally for his expertise. I met him in his home province, Dekma, in the middle Delta. He welcomed me, alluding to the old affiliation between our families. Then he told me the story, leaving out some of the things I already knew.
I confess that I am not a happy man. I failed to assume the responsibilities of my position. Thus I not only forfeited any chance of ascending the throne, but I also saw the empire collapse before my very eyes. I retired from political and public life, but I shall always have regrets. I often ask myself, “What kind of being was my king, Akhenaten?” Or should I say “the heretic” now?
I was one of his friends from boyhood, like Haremhab and Bek. I could speak at great length about his unusually feminine features, his feeble body, and his generally strange appearance. But despite all that, he was able to make us love him and admire his intelligence and precocious maturity.
Certainly Akhenaten had his flaws. I was the first to discover a grave defect in his character—he was not in the least concerned with the operative matters of government. Indeed they bored him greatly. He looked on ironically as his father went about the daily routine on which the traditions of the throne were based—waking up at the same hour, bathing, eating, praying, conferring with the men of his cabinet, then visiting the temple. “What enslavement,” Akhenaten said. He trifled with tradition like a spoilt child amusing himself by breaking expensive items. But when it came to mystical questions of life and death and the mysterious powers of the universe, he was very ambitious. He became more determined in pursuing these ambitions after his brother Tuthmosis died. He suffered the loss of his companion, and decided to strike mercilessly against any suffering. His exuberant imagination paved the way for him, but ultimately led him to disaster. Perhaps we all had our fanciful visions, but we knew that it was merely imagination. Akhenaten, however, wanted to make his fantasies a reality. As a result, he was accused of madness and idiocy. No. He was not mad and he was not a fool— though he was not normal either.
At a very young age he became a burden to his father and the priests of Amun. For us he was an enigma. To question the precedence of Amun, worship Aten, then invent a god that was the sole source of creation in the universe, was beyond what we could fathom. I did not doubt his sincerity, but I was also certain that he was mistaken. He never lied, but he did not hear the voice of a god. It was his own heart that spoke. It might have been more acceptable if the one who claimed the prophecy had been a priest, but to be the crown prince of the throne of Egypt is a different matter. He began to tell people about his prophecy, about the god of love, peace, and joy. During his father's reign, Akhenaten was powerless, but he was determined to do away with all the traditional gods and their temples as soon as he was able. When he became king, the dream was superimposed on reality. The balance of life was disrupted and tragedy threatened. When he ascended the throne, he invited us to join his new religion. I was of the opinion we should decline.
“Perhaps if he found himself alone he would renounce his cause,” I said to Haremhab.
“I am afraid he would find other people, with neither morals nor experience, and they would haul the country to its destruction.”
“But couldn't the same thing happen at our hands?”
Haremhab smiled sarcastically. “He is far too weak to disregard our opinion.” Then he shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “He has nothing but words; we have power.”
And so I declared my faith in his religion. He appointed me minister of chamber and my fears subsided. I met him every day in Thebes or in Akhetaten to deliberate matters of government, finance, security, and water resources. He would remain silent while the queen and I conferred. Nefertiti's aptitude for politics was beyond imagination; she was a powerful presence on the throne of Egypt. As for the king, he spoke only of his god and his message and gave instructions that served his religion. When Akhenaten decided to abolish the traditional religions, I warned him of the consequences.
“Your faith is still weak, Nakht,” he said reproachfully.
We walked together to the terrace and stood before the crowd that had gathered in the concourse. He had the power of magic in the souls of his people. He announced his decision with a frightening determination. Cries of adulation filled the air. I felt as though I was nonexistent and that the feeble creature beside me possessed a mysterious power never encountered before. Despite Nefertiti's shrewdness, she submitted herself to her husband and enthused about his message as if it was her own. I was rather surprised by her position. This woman is either his spiritual partner, I thought, or the most insidious being humanity has ever known. I believe that what had secured such success for him from the beginning was that no one dared to contradict him but me. Haremhab did not utter a word in opposition until the crisis was at its height. As for Ay, he feigned devout ness and dedication to the new god. If I blame anyone, I would accuse Ay of deception and ill-intent. He contrived a scheme to take the throne of Egypt. As the appointed teacher of the crown prince, Ay knew Akhenaten's weaknesses. He was the one who converted him to Aten and imbued him with the idea of the One God. Akhenaten's marriage to Nefertiti was devised by Ay as a part of his scheme, despite his awareness that the prince was an impotent man. Thus he became the king's father-in-law and his counselor, known in Egypt as the Sage. He induced him to abolish the traditional gods and to appropriate their temples, in order to sow the seeds of dissension between him and the priests. He hoped that the strife would either force Akhenaten to abdicate the throne or culminate in his assassination. Ay was well aware of the considerations that made him a candidate for the throne. He was father-in-law of the king and sage of Egypt. Because of his old age, his reign would be short-lived. He therefore posed no significant threat to those who coveted the throne for themselves. Perhaps he even planned to marry his own daughter to substantiate the succession, and so that she could continue as queen of Egypt. You must understand that my opinion is not based on my personal impressions alone. I had private and reliable sources that provided me with indisputable evidence. Yet his scheme failed. There were two factors that stopped him from succeeding. First there was the people's loyalty to the pharaoh. And then, at the critical moment, the priests appointed Tutankhamun king. But I believe Ay still ruminates on his old dream.
I could not tell anyone what I thought, but I continued to offer my advice to the king.
“My King,” I said, “your God is undoubte
But it would have been easier to move a pyramid than to move Akhenaten from his position.
“Your faith is still weak, Nakht,” was all he said.
“To defend one's faith is a right that does not counter love and peace,” I insisted.
“Even the most wicked people will yield to the power of love, for love is stronger than the sword.”
When the storm clouds gathered, I called a closed meeting with the high priest of Amun and Commander Mae.
“We must act now before we lose what is left of our honor.” They eyed me with curiosity and I continued, “Let the priests stop stirring up trouble. Then Mae will lead his forces to save the empire.”
“Move without orders from the pharaoh?” Mae asked.
“Yes,” I replied calmly.
Of the three of us, the priest was the strongest. He asked, “And then what?”
“When Mae is victorious, the king will be forced to declare freedom of worship.”
“I must disagree,” the high priest said. “That's not a good plan. The leaders of the troops might rebel against Mae if he ordered them to move without a royal decree.” Then he frowned and his face reddened. “Your loyalty is to your king, Nakht, not us. You must have learned about our success in the provinces and decided to hinder our progress with your inane proposition.”
Angered by the priest's stab, I left them. I was certain now that everyone merely wanted to serve their own purposes. Egypt was in the hands of villains. They were all responsible for the destruction of the country, whether they were with the king or against him. Perhaps Akhenaten was the least to blame. They used him for their benefit. When he was no longer of any use, they wanted to depose him and claim the throne. Because of his trusting nature he believed their lies. Then a power that no one anticipated rose up from within him and swept them swiftly along for a time, until it crashed against the hard rock of reality. Then each one headed for the life raft, leaving their visionary victim to sink alone, wondering why his God had forsaken him. They tore the masks off their faces, most of all Nefertiti and her father Ay. Each of them took a different path, but none was dealt their retribution. Except the poor heretic, and to some extent Nefertiti, when the priests did not accept her false penitence. As for Egypt, it lay sore with wounds, bleeding under the weight of our blunders.