forefathers.
Akhenaten and I were opposites. But that did not stop us from developing a very firm friendship that withstood several trials, until finally it was crushed by a mountain of contradiction. I can still see his smile as he said, “Haremhab, my bloodthirsty, monstrous friend, I love you.” I searched in vain for something we might have in common. I invited him several times to join me in my favorite sport, hunting. He would always reply, “Beware and do not defile the loving heart of nature.” He disliked military training, even the uniform. One time he stared at my helmet and my sword and said, “Is it not strange that decent people like yourself are trained to become professional executioners?”
“What would your great-grandfather, Tuthmosis III, say if he heard you?”
“My
His strange ideas, I thought, may not stand in the way of his friendships, but what would happen if he took them to the throne? I was unable to imagine him as a pharaoh, like all the great pharaohs of Egypt. My feeling never changed, even during the merriest and most blissful times. Indeed during those times he seemed even further from the gravity and glory of the pharaohs.
Once, during his father's rule, I was deputed to discipline some rebels in a far corner of the empire. I set out in charge of an armed raid for the first time. My mission was carried out successfully and I returned with plenty of loot and captives. King Amenhotep III was impressed and honored me generously. When the prince congratulated me on my safe return, I invited him to see the captives. They stood before him shackled and half naked. As he gazed at them, their eyes begged for sympathy, as if they sensed his weakness. A cloud of gloom came over his face.
“Rest in peace,” he said tenderly, “you shall not be harmed.”
I became quite agitated, for I had vowed to punish them severely until they were willing to renounce chaos and submit to order.
“Haremhab,” he asked as we left together, “are you proud of what you did?”
“My Prince,” I replied, “I have earned this pride.”
“What a pity,” he mumbled, then continued teasingly, “you are just a sophisticated bandit.”
That was Akhenaten, the crown prince who would in time take the throne and rule the empire. Nonetheless, I was intrigued and craved more of the strange fruit of his mind. It never affected my own ideas though. It was like listening to a voice from another world, intriguing yet incomprehensible. How did we become friends? How did my heart become filled with love for him? These are questions I cannot answer.
I recall a discussion we had about religion one time. We were resting near his private place in the palace garden.
“Haremhab,” he asked, “why do you pray in the temple of Amun?”
I was taken aback. I had no answer that would satisfy him or me. I remained silent.
“Do you really believe in Amun, and all you were taught about him?”
I thought about the question for a short while then replied, “Not in the same way that other people believe in him.”
“Either you believe or you do not. There is no middle way.”
“I only care about religion as one of the oldest traditions in Egypt,” I said in all honesty.
“You worship only yourself, Haremhab,” he said with provoking confidence.
“Let us say that I worship Egypt.”
“Have you ever been tempted to ask what is the secret of life and existence?”
“I know how to eliminate such temptations when they arise,” I replied.
“How unfortunate. And what have you done for your soul then?”
“Duty is what I hold sacred.” I was growing weary of his pressing questions. “And I have built myself a tomb for the hereafter.”
He sighed. “I hope one day you will savor the sweetness of intimacy.”
“Intimacy?”
“Intimacy with the one creator of the universe.”
“Why one creator only?” I questioned, somewhat impassive.
“Because he is too great to have an equal,” he replied serenely.
Akhenaten! A feeble shadow wandering aimlessly in the palace garden, flirting with flowers and birds, singing like a girl. I could swear he was meant to be born female, and at the last minute nature changed its course. A grave misfortune for Egypt. The first time Nefertiti made an appearance in the royal palace was in the Sed festival, the thirtieth jubilee of the pharaoh's reign. She stunned everyone with her beauty and spirit. She danced with the daughters of the honorables, and charmed us all with her sensuous voice:
Her parents, Ay and Tey, must have prepared her for such an impressive display; they had paved the way for her to sit on the throne of Egypt. Bear in mind that Ay was the crown prince's teacher. No doubt he had every chance to influence Akhenaten's shaky character, and to lead him by the hand to the snare that he had set with his daughter. In any event, Nefertiti won the affection of both the prince and his mother at the Sed festival. Not too long after, she was married to the crown prince.
During the wedding celebrations, the high priest of Amun said to me, “Perhaps in marriage the prince will mature and put aside his foolish ideas.”
“A common woman like her,” I replied, pointing at Nefertiti, “probably never dreamed of the throne. She will not jeopardize it by angering her husband.”
I have often wondered if she would have taken him as her husband if he was not crown prince. You see, it is hard to imagine Akhenaten as the knight of any girl's dream, even if she was a simple peasant.
Marriage did not calm him. On the contrary he became more defiant. In time I learned about his peculiar claim: a new god, revealed to him through a voice and no vision. The future, I thought then, would be grim. After a while, news came that Amenhotep III was so angry with the prince that he had sent him on a long tour of the empire.
Haremhab went on to tell me in detail about Akhenaten's talks with the people of the empire, when he called on them to join his new religion and promised them love and joy and equal treatment. He added nothing to what I had heard from Ay.
Despite our friendship and my loyalty to the prince, I wished then, for the first time, to kill him with my own
