A
few glances to the left… a white, undecorated wall, on which a hunched shadow quivered. A little too elongated, it didn't resemble its owner. His eyes wandered further down the frame. A dozen or so wooden, gold-adorned chests lay in disarray, dented, neglected, dirty fragments of expensive materials, precious ornaments, a single bead, the remains of a broken necklace. Pure chaos, unbecoming of a noblewoman. A turn of the head to the right. Another wall. The bed next to it, small, rather plain, supported layers of disorderly bedding. This was the room of the future heir to the throne. The boy rose lazily. The angular, uncomfortable stool chafed against him. The bed was a much more comfortable place for contemplation. Leaning against the wall, he inhaled a large breath and extinguished the oil lamp, tightening his licked fingers around the burning wick. And suddenly, darkness fell. Everything vanished from sight. Death…is also darkness. The sun allows life to continue. Without its light, life cannot continue. People then close their eyelids and sink into sleep. They close their eyelids like the dying. Isn't the only meaning, then, brightness, light, flickering rays?
*
The door slowly opened. A small, slender figure emerged, dressed in a short apron, or rather, a loosely tied piece of rough linen. A glass pendant depicting the benevolent god Bes, who watches over small children, proudly adorned the boy's neck.
"Sir…I have been brought here to inform you of…today's reception celebrating the union of Thutmose with Osiris. You are invited, sir; everyone awaits your esteemed presence," the little servant said in an uncertain tone. His voice was so quiet, humble, and trembling that it gave the impression of the dying man's last words.
"Sir..."
Amenhotep seemed completely oblivious to the small, frail child with lively, bulging eyes. He fixed his gaze intently on his modest pendant. And another god, guarding human beings. The lord of life and death, a figment of the theologians' imagination. "
Tell my mother I won't be in today. I'm tired and my legs hurt. I don't feel like seeing anyone," he concluded, still not taking his eyes off the bright blue ornament. "
I understand, sir."
"And tell the servants I want a drink," he added quickly. "There isn't a drop of water here."
The child shrugged his bony shoulders and turned on his heel. Surprised, overcome by both shame and shyness, he wandered down the narrow corridor. What was so extraordinary about this ordinary image of a comical idol that even the king's son devoted his full attention to it? The boy tore the strap from his thin neck. Perhaps his caring mother, bustling in the palace kitchen, would know the answer? Yes—she knows everything. A radiant, pure smile graced his face. The smile of a child filled with unexpected euphoria. The smile that used to creep onto the faces of small Egyptian peasants, passionately frightening the vociferous marsh ducks. The boy's quickened gait transformed into a bouncy dance.
"Stop! I haven't given you permission to leave yet."
The little boy turned and stopped as ordered. He lowered his gaze and bowed his neck, a sign of a servant's submission to his master. A cold shiver ran through his body, and his heart pounded.
Amenhotep turned, unconsciously tripping over the small chair he had brought with him from the temple. He straightened immediately and moved more cautiously toward the ebony box. For a moment, leaning over the gleaming chest, he looked like a professional thief carrying out a spectacular robbery. He soon pulled out a precious, truly royal pectoral cross, crafted entirely of gold and semiprecious stones. He grabbed the heavy necklace with both hands and hung it awkwardly around the neck of the eight-year-old servant. The child's eyes widened in astonishment, and his shoulders bowed beneath the royal adornment. In the cool, mystical moonlight, the colorful stones sparkled with majesty and extraordinary elegance, a stark contrast to their new owner, who stood open-mouthed before the calm, enigmatic Prince Amenhotep.
*
Quietly, almost imperceptibly, crickets played their nocturnal melody. The garden inside the palace was immersed in a soundless slumber. Cornflowers fluttered gently in the light, cool breeze, lotuses exuded a fresh, sweet fragrance. The only exceptions were the occasional visits from wine-weary guests, who collapsed here and there in the tall grass, vomiting, or cursing and staggering between the branches of the trees. It was a truly successful party, especially since it had only just begun. Queen Tiye, seated on cushions at a low table, watched the guests intently. She didn't touch a drop of the aromatic wine, anticipating the hours of drinking ahead. Her brown face was dimly illuminated by a small oil lamp standing next to the food. Her figure was almost plunged into darkness. Only her sharp, cunning eyes gleamed in the dim flame.
The king stumbled over his servants, mumbling indistinctly. The robe, torn from his shoulders, hung carelessly on an embroidered belt that unnecessarily constricted the pharaoh's belly. The layers of fabric had suddenly turned crimson red, much like the pharaoh's face. The wine-soaked robes clung to his sagging, rounded body. "
Pour me more of that wonderful drink! Truly, it's been a long time since I tasted better! I'm as thirsty as any Libyan in the middle of the desert!" the pharaoh shouted in a hoarse voice.
Heavy, dull music boomed loudly, drowning out the king. Young, scantily clad musicians smiled flirtatiously at the guests, delicately stroking the strings of their harps and lutes with their fingers. The pharaoh extended his golden cup toward his wife once again, leaning against the wall, which seemed about to collapse under his weight.
"You won't deny me a few more drops, surely, my dearest?" he said in a wavering tone, leaning over the queen. "Take this jug and give me generously," he whispered tenderly in her ear, simultaneously playing with her hair. Tye seemed indifferent to his pleas. She stared straight ahead, stone-faced, embarrassed by her husband's indecent behavior. The unpleasant smell of beer and sweat wafted around him, forcing Tye to avert her face. The king hadn't enjoyed himself so lavishly in a long time. The grief over his son's death passed quickly and almost painlessly, thanks to the irreplaceable help of the intoxicating beverages.
The pharaoh pushed his wife away, at least roughly, no longer caring about the gathered feasters who were watching him insistently.
"You surely won't refuse me, wretched jackal!...Before you stands the sun of kings and the ruler of rulers," the king choked out, approaching with unsteady steps the Babylonian dignitary, who was staying seasonally in Thebes. The tall, bearded man with a cunning, profound gaze turned to retrieve a small clay jug from among the silver bowls of fruit. Still, despite the general state of intoxication and the relaxed atmosphere of the feast, he stood firmly on the painted floor, observing moderation in his consumption of the feast's goods. He exchanged searching glances with Queen Tiye, simultaneously pouring wine into a precious goblet.
The pharaoh burst into loud, immodest, and exceptionally rude laughter, in which one could hear telltale signs of good fun and at least a few previously emptied glasses of beer. Unsteadily swaying on his massive legs, he puffed out his stomach and, to the delight of the courtiers gathered at the reception, poured the entire contents of the goblet onto his already stained, rumpled robes. The red stream of aromatic drink, sparkling in the dim torchlight, rolled down the pharaoh's round chest and disappeared into the thick layers of linen. When the king threw himself onto the hard, narrow bench, Tiye breathed a sigh of relief. Watching the decline and degradation of her husband was no easy task for the queen, who meticulously observed every gesture and word. A ruler who publicly made a fool of himself was proof of the weakening of the dynasty, the incompetence of those in power, and the falsehood of the divine nature. The pharaoh. While it was true that during the spontaneous feast, none of the participants were potentially discussing religious and political issues, more attentive eyes boldly followed the pharaoh's actions. Tiye felt like a watched prisoner, confined within the high, red columns of the hall. Worse still, she felt that all the shame and disgrace for her husband's actions rested on her – a burden exceedingly difficult to bear.
After a short while, a tall, slender man with sharp, coarse features approached the queen. He sat down next to the queen, pushing aside the king's drunken companions – military men and officials – who were sprawled on the floor.
"Your Majesty doesn't drink?" he asked ironically. Vivid, clear, dark brown eyes could be seen beneath his high forehead. Their expression was at least malicious, though tinged with incredible cunning and acumen.
"Return to your lovers, Eje. You are not needed here if you don't feel like wine," the queen replied calmly. She wanted to hide her anger at all costs so that her observant brother would miss that detail. "
Look, Your Majesty, at your husband. Isn't it time for the pharaoh to retire to his well-deserved rest?" the young chariot commander asked, nodding toward the amused, rounded man, greedily swallowing plump grapes. He did so all the more eagerly when he could catch them in his mouth right from the hands of the young servant, who was simultaneously fanning his almost senile, worn-out body. A modest gust of air, enraged by the ostrich feathers, allowed him to relax somewhat and forget about his wife's unpleasant refusal.
The queen buried her face in her hands, resting her elbows on the low, ebony table.
"Go now. You should respect the king, who is your lord and god. Such behavior does not befit you," she said in a deep voice that betrayed weariness and suppressed despair. The vain drinking depressed her painfully, and the image of her lost son kept flickering in her mind. No cup of wine was worth a single smile from him...
Eje bowed, disappearing behind a transparent red curtain. He decided to retreat so as not to impose himself on the queen.
The music struck a louder note. The melody changed character—the notes grew higher and higher, until the low singing of the blind harpist could be heard. The weary artist and at the same time sensitive musician plucked fiercely at the strings of his precious instrument, drawing from it a wailing, poignant song. Beads of sweat beaded on his shaved, smooth skull, and in his dead, though open, eyes, an incredible will to fight for every sound and every nuance of the spoken word, clothed in delicate, peaceful music, nestled.
A lonely harpist, surrendering to his destiny, and a sad queen, silently observing a vulgar, sinful feast. Long, slender fingers stroking the string, and a fading, troubled woman succumbing to the charm of art. All around were insignificant people in crumpled rags, women in glittering jewelry, sleeping servants leaning against the wall, wives of the wealthy and noble, groping for a jug of wine. Overturned benches, broken alabaster lamps, brown, moving silhouettes cackling loudly. An image of human vanity and snobbish selfishness, with a small admixture of spontaneous joy, illuminated by the feeble light of single oil lamps. Soon the conversations died down, and the hall slowly bathed in darkness. The last notes of the harp mingled with darkness to get lost in its depths.
The pharaoh felt a vast, burning emptiness in his head. Meriptah and Prince Amenhotep were gone; the problems and anxieties that had kept him awake were forgotten. What good was it that the still damp material clung uncomfortably to his body, while it could delight in the delicate breeze coming from the enormous fans? What good was succession to the throne if thoughts revolved only around fleeting pleasures, concentrating on the senses? The dull sound of the flutes only brought about a state of reduced activity, and the wine intensified this effect. His eyelids slowly drooped, his thoughts blurred, fusing into oneness—a vague space without beginning or end. Reality seemed to be nothing—the past a fleeting butterfly shadow, the present a depressing, empty hum. Only the deep silence enveloping his mind drew great circles on the calm, The queen and the pharaoh's children were awakened just before dawn
. Slowly and steadily at first, the red disk of the rising sun emerged from behind the hills, bathing the holy shrines in a vibrant, shimmering ray.
Tiye hurried silently through the silent corridors, reminiscent of the dark tunnels of a tomb. The vivid paintings, dimly lit, were mere dull spots on the pale floor. From deep within the palace came the faint, timid wailing and moaning. Yesterday, they had still echoed, echoing off the massive walls of the Valley of the Kings. It seemed to the mourners then that the rock would crumble and yield to the immense force of pain the mourners so valiantly exerted.
The princesses stood against the wall with their heads bowed. Only the eldest, Satamon, dared approach her dying father. Her heavily made-up face betrayed no grimace, no emotion. It was true that it was difficult for her to maintain a dignified posture, but the example of her unwavering mother, resisting every challenge with the courage of a lioness, gave her strength. Only the sound of nervously approaching footsteps unsettled her. She released the pharaoh's helpless hand and turned toward the door. Between the cedar leaves of the gate appeared a slender silhouette, her head crowned with a divine feather crown and a solar disk. In this magical way, the queen assumed the role of the goddess Isis, guardian of rebirth and faithful wife of Osiris.
Satamon swallowed. Her mother's attire confirmed her own fears. The physicians were powerless—they had retreated from the pharaoh's chambers only hours ago. And so her mother had arrived, to escort the unfortunate king as a goddess to the distant and inaccessible world of the dead.
Tiye disappointed the princess, who had been so determined to maintain etiquette and impress her sisters and mother. She bowed her head and once again gazed at the unconscious body, surrendered to the grace and disfavor of the deities.
The queen wept. Hadn't she had enough of years of funerals, humiliations, uncertainty, and grief? Why was she forced to silently watch her husband's death now, when power was beginning to slip from the palace? Would she survive this ordeal?
The pharaoh's face blurred in the darkness. The feeble light prevented the visibility of all his wrinkles and facial features. Wasn't it the duty of a ruler, a queen mother, to seamlessly, delicately connect the past and the future? Shouldn't a queen bear the image of Osiris in her heart, to pass it on to Horus? Shouldn't she...? A sad question echoed in her ears.
Tiye reached out her hands to the still, calm face, devoid of any grimace or contraction. Cool, slender, trembling hands moved from his furrowed forehead to his closed, dark circles, which were framed by not-so-deep wrinkles. The king's cheeks turned purple under the tender, familiar touch.
Satamon buried her face in her hands, leaning against the wall with a groan. The sight of the last ritual of the living robbed her of her self-confidence and stirred her vain soul.
The younger sisters, Isis, Nebtah, and Henuttaneb, followed their elder sister's holy example, kneeling in silent terror. Soon their quiet sobs were joined by the high, piercing scream of an old, obese woman. The gates opened once again. Twelve mourners entered the hall, symbolizing the hours of night—the time when the god Ra sailed through the underworld to be reborn in the morning.
The women knelt before the door, raising wails and uncontrollable moans to the heavens, fueled by a strange kind of trance. Hands raised, they scooped up handfuls of ash to cover their tousled, black hair, bound with a crude thong. Antimony, surrounding the oval of their eyes, seeped in ugly streams down their cheeks. Black tears sparkled in the flickering light of the oil lamps, merging into a shocking whole with the trembling, spiritual song.
The queen felt herself dying along with her husband. Her faith and strength were fading.
Amenhotep III's chest stopped moving. His hand released its grip, falling limply onto the crumpled bed. The sharp, eye-searing morning sun streamed in through the narrow window, resting on the dead face. Tiye shuddered. Stretching her arms, she tried to catch the disembodied soul soaring toward the sun. In a final gesture of despair, she pressed her cheek to the dead man's face, whispering magical formulas. She understood in an instant how much love she had for this indolent, unhappy man. Why had she been able to content herself with only power for 38 years
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