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.
The minister was silent for a long time. Then he mumbled in deep sadness, “This is a story of innocence, of deception, and infinite grief.”
Bento
Bento was Akhenaten's personal physician. Indeed, when I met him, he still occupied the position of personal physician of the pharaoh in Tutankhamun's palace. Bento was sixty years old, with a noble bearing and marks of Nubian descent. When I visited him in his beautiful palace at the center of Thebes, I found him to be a man of serene nature and soft voice, yet extremely energetic. His clothes were exquisitely tasteful. Gathering his memories, Bento began.
Today, Akhenaten is known only as “the heretic.” But despite all that was said about him, my heart still fills with love at the mention of his name. What a life he created for himself! Did Akhenaten really live among us? Did he really devote his life to love? Why, then, all the malice and hatred that was left behind? Whenever I think of him I remember how, when he was a young boy, he aroused the concern of all those who knew him. The Great Queen Tiye would often ask me, “Why is Akhenaten so frail, Bento?”
I remember my confusion in trying to answer. Akhenaten had no particular ailment. But he was thin and feeble, and, unlike his brother Tuthmosis, he was prey to every malady that came his way. He did not like sport, nor was he keen on maintaining a good diet. I often prayed to Thoth, the god of science, asking him to advise me on Akhenaten. Yet all my attempts were to no avail. Thoth's amulets had no effect on him, and herbs blessed by Isis did nothing to help his sickly body. I became extremely worried when, during the khamsin winds, he fell ill and his brother soon contracted the same disease. They were both confined to one room when the queen said to me, “Look, Bento, their faces are so yellow, and their stomachs feel like stone. Neither of them has relieved himself in days.”
I examined them carefully. “They have a temperature and their stomachs are bloated. Give them a drink that will ease their bowels. Then mix some sweet, fermented malt water with flour and leave it to infuse overnight. Let that be their only food for four days.”
Before four days had passed the strong Tuthmosis died and the feeble brother was spared. Akhenaten wandered about the palace, grieving, looking for his brother.
“You left my brother to die,” he protested when he saw me. Then he looked at his father and continued, “When I become pharaoh, I will kill death.”
“Could Tuthmosis come back for just one day?” he asked me once.
“Pray to the gods who spared your soul, Akhenaten, for there is no return from death, and we shall all die in time,” I replied.
“Why?” he insisted.
“Akhenaten,” I said softly, “let us hear that song you sang with your brother.”
For a long time sadness was his only companion, so much so that I thought he outdid even his mother in mourning his brother. As I was treating him once, he asked, “Why all this effort if we are going to die anyhow?” I smiled and continued my work. He said, “You smile as though you were immortal.”
I replied, to avoid his pestering, “Ask your tutor Ay.”
“Ay doesn't know any more than you,” he said scornfully.
The maturity of his mind, in one so young and delicate, made a deep impression on me. I followed his spiritual adventures keenly, and was filled with admiration. He had astounding qualities that one could not fathom; he had the power to defy any force that challenged him. Despite his physical weakness, he had exceptional perseverance. He barely slept. Instead, he prayed constantly like a priest, and read like a sage. He never wearied of asking questions or debating. What, I wondered, would destiny hold in store for him if one day he sat on the throne of his forefathers? His father, King Amenhotep III, was so concerned that he once said, “The boy is worthy of anything but the throne.”
One day I noticed him glaring angrily at his father. “You understand matters beyond your age,” I said, “but you still do not realize your father's greatness.”
He replied irritably, “I cannot bear the way he gobbles his food.”
He was repulsed by those who were driven by carnal desires. I used to believe a healthy body was essential for a healthy soul, but he proved that the opposite was also true. I learned from him that the soul may lend a weak body power beyond its physical capabilities.
“You pay so much attention to the body, as if it were everything, when in fact the real strength lies in the soul,” he said. “The body is a poor frame, sordid and amoral. It can fail and collapse with only an insect's sting. But the soul is immortal.” Then he cried out, as if he had completely forgotten my existence, “I do not know what I want, but I know that I am full of desire. Oh how dreary is the long night!”
He would sit silently in the darkness awaiting the sunrise, and when the light came he would be glowing with happiness. Until one day he heard the voice of the One God with the first rays of sunlight. I realized then that Akhenaten was no gentle spring breeze, but a winter storm. Thebes knew no peace thereafter.
The king and queen summoned me. “What is the meaning of that voice he heard, Bento?” Tiye asked.
I was bewildered. “Perhaps the sage Ay is more suited to answer your question, my Queen.”
“The queen asked you in your capacity as a doctor,” the king said severely.
“I know no mind as sound as his, Your Majesty,” I replied sincerely.
