A cold desert wind blows through the halls. Columns and
paintings that are bright and shining in the day light cast long shadows.
Blackened doorways gape, the many jaws of an enormous stone beast, waiting to
devour passersby. A jackel screams in the sand, it is answered. Soon the dunes,
glowing silver in the moonlight echo with childlike screeches. A man shivers,
not from the cold or the screams. The king is dead and a great time of change
has come.
Nine
years have passed. The sun shines bright on the alabaster pillars of the royal
city, restored now after seventeen long years. The man from the desert night
waits patiently for his pharaoh to finish his speech. The man does not listen,
he has heard it before, he wrote it. The pharaoh is just a boy, a royal boy
with the spark of the gods within him but a boy none the less. If it were not
for the man this boy would be dead and buried, lost to the sands. It was Aye
that had brought the capital back to Thebes, Aye that cast out the heathen
priests and restored the Old Gods to their positions of glory. This boy was
nothing but a pup. But he was necessary. Aye could never rule alone, the people
would not follow him, he was not of the divine blood line. Rich as he was, the
royals could still spit on him and expect him to thank them for the favour.
“… And
the time has come to bring my father home from Amarna to be buried here in
honour befitting a divine Pharoah.” Aye coughed in surprise, momentarily losing
his composure. That was not part of the speech he had written. The room erupted
in applause and the Pharoah left the rest of the business to his advisors. Aye
followed him out. Waiting to be acknowledged. The Pharaoh retired to his bed
chambers, attended by a cadre of slaves wielding fans and refreshments and did
not recognize Aye’s presence until he was comfortably reposed on his expansive
bed. “Ah my beloved advisor. What do you have to say me?”
“Pardon
my intrusion Pharoah, I was intrigued by your choice to recover your father.”
Aye kept his eyes on the ground, his bowed.
The
Pharaoh popped a date into his mouth and chewed, savouring the sweetness. “Oh,
and what about it seemed so intriguing. He deserves to be buried with our
ancestors, remembered in glory until the day of his ascension.”
“Yes of
course Pharaoh, but perhaps this is not the best time. The cult of Aten still
has its followers and the people have endured so much change already. Perhaps
we could post-pone this until a better time?”
The
Pharaoh rose from his bed and slaves scurried to attend him, he swatted them
away roughly. “You dare to question me Aye? I am Pharaoh and my word is truth.
I want my father returned to me and I want it now.” Aye backed away in fear, he
had never seen the Pharaoh this way before, he had always been so suggestable,
so tractable. This new self-possession did not bode well for Aye.
“No my
Pharaoh, I do not mean to question you… I… I merely…..” He was cut off by a
strike across the face that left him dazed.
“You
merely nothing. This is my will and you will carry it out. Am I understood?”
His eyes were blazing, cheeks flushed and sweat beaded his forehead. He was
breathing heavily and Aye could see he would collapse. The Pharaoh was not in
good health, an affliction of the blood claimed the healers and the priests but
they offered no cures.
The slaves returned as the colour drained from the Pharaoh’s cheeks and his legs began to tremble. “Yes Pharaoh, your will is truth. I will obey.” Aye responded out of tradition but the Pharaoh did not hear him, he had collapsed into the arms of his waiting slaves and was already being born to his bed once again. Aye backed out of the room, eyes always on the ground, head bowed and he was careful not to turn until the doors had swung shut. Then he straightened, an angry glint in his eye. ‘This insolent pup will learn not to cross me.’ He thought. ‘If he wants his father close, it is my duty to grant that wish, he can join him in the other world and they can worship their heathen god once more.
Ok so I hope you enjoyed my foray into the realm of historical fiction. It was really to illustrate a point.
We can only go so far with what the archaeology tells us. DNA is a fantastic tool for determing kinship, grave goods can tell us about status and wealth. The investment in the burial and form of funerary practice can tell us about how important the person was in their world. But what about the stories, what about the lives of these people? Historical texts can tell us somethings but the narratives are left up to writers (usually ones far more adept than I).
This narratives are not bad things. They inspire interest in archaeology and some are even acurate. I myself am an avid reader of historical fiction. However, the word "fiction" needs to be paramount in our understanding. These are stories and should never be confused with archaeology. The facts few and far between and these stories are interpretations at best.
Yay 10th blog post done
