The Exodus Diary

By Lee Levin

Archaeologists have been shoveling and spading Egypt's earth for centuries.  One would think nothing of major significance could possibly remain unearthed.  

Not so.  A second-rate Egyptologist, from a third-rate university, on his last dig, unearths a miracle--the diary of the Pharaoh Ay, successor to Tutankhamen,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marian Levin
• Release date: Oct 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780983102793

Book preview

It isn’t easy being a living god. Particularly now, when I’m fifty-eight years old—much too ancient for the burdens that godhood places on me.

Don’t misunderstand. I don’t expect sympathy. Who would not gladly trade their place for mine? But he would be a fool. He would have no idea how quickly perquisites pall, while troubles multiply like mosquitos in summer. The only consolation is that of all men now living only I will have everlasting life with Osiris. Everlasting! I shall dwell in the constellation Orion, a true and immortal god, once these my earthly travails are at an end.

When that insufferable brat Tutankhamen died, he left no heir, a fact for which Egypt may consider itself truly blessed. I say this even though I am his grandfather. Egypt suffered enough under the rule of Tutankhamen and his lunatic father Akhenaten. That tainted bloodline is now extinguished forever. With Tutankhamen’s death, the throne of Egypt stood empty. I promptly seized my opportunity. Somebody had to do it, and as grand vizier none was better positioned than I to grab the crook and flail. I really had no choice. Had I not acted, and swiftly, one of my rivals would have, and I would now be in my House of Eternity.

The people seemed pleased—after the reigns of Akhenaten and Tutankhamen, anyone would look good. Not that it matters what the people think or want.

So now I am Ay, god-pharaoh, ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt. I have been king but a short time. Less than a year. Were it not for the priestly promise conferred upon me at my coronation, that I shall one day take my rightful place among the eternally worshipped gods, I would gladly give up this meaningless crown and all the empty honors and privileges that accompany it. I would greatly prefer simply to be left alone, to live out my life in tranquility, to tend to my household, and to know peace. But peace is not vouchsafed me. Not to me, nor was it to any of the pharaohs that are my predecessors. Luckily, I am a tough man, originally a minor noble who seized the chance to marry his daughter to a pharaoh and thus thrust myself into a position of power. And now I am pharaoh.

I am certain that none of the powerful men who comprise the inner circle of my court consider me a god. They know me too well. They know who I was all those years before I grabbed the crown. No one in this palace is in awe of me, of that I am certain. Oh, my court, from the highest official to the lowest courtier, offers me the obligatory obeisances, but they do it perfunctorily. I can see it in their eyes. They do not worship me. I have no heir. I am old. They plot and scheme, vultures, impatient to pick my bones. Akhenaten was able to rip the entire fabric of Egypt because his blood was royal. None could say him nay, because even though he was insane, he was a god. It would have been sacrilege to slay him. But me? Akhenaten ruled by right of his bloodline. I seized this throne by force, without god-blood in my veins.

It is one thing to have the power to rule, another to have the right. Without god-blood, all I have is my intelligence. Fortunately, that is considerable, or I would not be where I am.

Meanwhile, every one of the endless problems of my subjects is brought before my throne. To me. To pharaoh. In the end I and I alone must deal with them. Nobody else. Just me.

I had thought I had become inured to the strains and anxieties of office when I had been grand vizier to the murderously mad Akhenaten and my loathsome grandson Tutankhamen. [Translator’s note: This passage clears up a portion of the genealogy of Tutankhamen; various theories have been proposed regarding his ancestry].

Not so. Of late I find, at moments of stress, my left eye twitches, and I can’t control it. It’s most annoying, and must be the cause of great merriment to my courtiers. I’m sure they mock me behind my back, dangerous though that is. If I even catch one of them at it his head will stand on a pole outside the palace gate until the vultures pick it clean.

My stomach sometimes burns at night and burdens my sleep. It never used to. In the years before I became pharaoh I would, save in the most troubling times, sleep almost before my body was fully stretched on the bed. No longer. Now, some nights are accompanied by fiery pain, and occasionally, the days too. All the potions and incantations of my physician Yuti seem to have no curative powers. Still, Yuti is the best there is. I try to stay mindful of the uncertainties of the healing arts, though this is difficult when my stomach feels like I swallowed a ferret whole, who tries to gnaw his way out.

It swelters here in Thebes. Insects buzz and drone incessantly, like the voices from the women’s quarters. Winged creatures swarm and bite even here in my royal palace. My servants with their jeweled and enameled fly-whisks are unable to keep the pests from my body. I’m a god to my people but not to the gnats.

Despite the most rigid efforts at screening, the outer courtyard of my palace teems with petitioners, all desperate for my personal intervention in the petty difficulties of their lives, all looking to me for redress of their grievances. From where I sit here on my throne, in my great audience chamber, I cannot yet see them, but I know they are there outside, waiting, anxious, their very lives dependent on my word, my whim. What are they thinking, these pathetic subjects of mine? I know what they expect of me.

Soon the supplicants will be admitted, to pour out their tales of pain and tragedy and injustice, looking to pharaoh himself for remedy and compensation. Though I have worn this double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt but a short time, already their pitiful woes have become monotonous repetitions. Their faces have come to look alike, and their grievances. I will cut them short and issue my decrees, rectifying or shattering their lives to fit the schedule of my day.

Everything has a price, and this is the price I pay for living well. I am the Great House of my people. This sense that their god-pharaoh himself is accessible to remedy the wrongs of their daily lives makes my people willing to tolerate the unbearable existence under which they toil. The burdens of my life weigh on me heavily, but as I think further upon it, I really wouldn’t trade my life for theirs.

Still, I would vastly prefer devoting all my remaining energies to the finishing of my House of Eternity. It must be fitting, and I am now so old I much doubt enough years are left to me to finish it properly. If it is grand enough, and if I rule well enough, perhaps Horus and Thoth and Min and Seti will overlook my misdeeds and take me into their company.

I gather up my writing reeds and my stone palette, with its two shallow round holes, one for the black ink and one for the red, and carefully commence drawing my words upon this tchama. [Translator’s note: a tchama is a papyrus roll; in this particular case the unrolled scroll proved to be nearly 15 inches wide and over 120 feet long. Although not a record for papyrus scrolls, it is close].

I cannot have this tale engraved in limestone or granite on the palace walls or the temples, and I certainly cannot inscribe it in my House of Eternity. It confers no glory on me. Quite the opposite. Only tales of triumph are incised in stone, to live forever. Still, these events which I now record are so wondrous that I would not want them to pass forever from the memory of man. Perhaps, ten thousand years from now, this scroll will be recovered from the place in which I shall conceal it, and men then will read with amazement the words I now compose.

I swear by Great Osiris, whom, I desperately hope, I shall join as fellow god when I cross to the other bank, that every word is true. If I write false, may the Tchatchaut when they weigh my heart on the Great Scales find me wanting, may they show me no pity, may Great Osiris himself, Judge of the Dead, reject me from his presence and may I never be one with Great Osiris in the Eternal Godhead. I make this solemn vow well knowing how difficult of belief these events would seem were I the one reading rather writing them. I have disagreeable work to do. Starting this tchama lets me postpone it, but only for a little while.

I let the petitioners wait while I inscribe these words. I smile when I consider that, less than a year ago, I myself was in this very audience chamber, not as pharaoh, but groveling with my forehead pressed firmly to the floor, abasing myself before my own grandson Tutankhamen. Yes, even though I was his grand vizier, I had to assume that ludicrous posture, and now every man in Egypt that wants audience with me is obliged to do the same. How much more civilized the custom appears from this side of the throne!

I let them all wait an hour while I begin this task of writing. An hour is brief, but it is a start, and once started, I know that I shall complete this task, if the gods grant me the time. I have few virtues, but one of them is discipline.

The hour passes, swiftly as the flooding headwaters of the Nile. The words seem to burst from my writing-reeds, events as lucid in mind as though they were happening in the very instant I inscribe them. I am mightily pleased my penmanship remains firm and clear as when I was a youth. Hieroglyphs march like soldiers in perfect alignment down the beckoning fabric of the scroll. I seem but barely commenced before I regretfully set my writing materials aside.

The first case is the worst. I have arranged it thus, to get it over with.

The wretch kneels before me, dragged in and thrust down by two burly soldiers of the royal guard. He is a miserable sight. A disagreeable odor emanates from him, the odor of fear. Understandable, since he has much to dread.

Khefer, for such is his name, pours out his miserable tale of woe, forehead glued tightly to the polished granite at the foot of my throne. He speaks in the highly refined, highly polished Lower Nile accent. Khefer is, after all, of the nobility. But even a noble finds it impossible to maintain dignity when constrained to prostrate himself in such a demeaning position. This, of course, is the entire point of it.

Khefer is a criminal. Painful as it is, since I know his family well, I must judge him, and harshly. I truly regret what I must do, but I have no choice. I harden my heart to my duty. It truly anguishes me, for I have, in the days before I became pharaoh, dined many times at his family’s estate. Still, this Khefer is a mediocrity. He does nothing, accomplishes nothing. He is the sort that gives the nobility a bad name. His death will be no loss to Egypt. In all truth, it is his father with whom I have association, and not this son of his, but this whole affair is painful to me nonetheless.

Your offense is a grave one, Khefer, I pronounce sternly, and directed at me personally. There is no worse crime than yours. And my own pharaonic court of inquiry has found you guilty after thorough investigation of your crime. You know the punishment.

Khefer whimpers piteously. I hate it when a noble does that. Most gracious lord (Life! Health! Strength!), he moans, a desperate whine in his voice, like a woman caught in adultery, with all respect to your court, they have accused the wrong man! I would never do anything to cause you harm. Why should I? I have nothing to gain from any injury to you.

His bony frame shakes, like a palm tree in the wind, dark hair hanging limply in damp, unsightly strands, pooling untidily onto the granite floor. It had been carefully coifed when he first entered. Even though his face is totally concealed from me by virtue of it being pressed to the stone, I know he oozes sweat uncontrollably. His damp hair betrays him. I hate to see cowardice among the nobles. They are the privileged of Egypt, and one of the prices of nobility is that they are expected to bear up, how shall I say it, nobly, when faced with adversity. This Khefer obviously is incapable of doing. A pity. He knows his fate. For the sake of his family, and his memory, he should bear up manfully, particularly since he knows the outcome is already predetermined.

Khefer has come before me dressed the part of the high nobility. He is tall, well formed, but gaunt. He wasn’t always like that. No doubt peril has taken the edge off his appetite, not to mention the paucity and inedibility of the food given him while awaiting sentencing. A cockroach sidles right over the fingers of his left hand, which is plastered to the floor. He does not notice, but I do.

His linen loincloth, elaborately decorated and pleated, held up by a central metal buckle emblazoned with hieroglyphs emblematic of his name and rank, is also dank with sweat. An elongated trapezoid apron hangs from the belt, richly embroidered with rows of multicolored beads. A white headcloth with red stripes sits firmly over his brow, with cloth falling behind to the middle of his back. A massive gold necklace in the shape of two falcon’s heads dangles loosely against the floor. No doubt he hopes all this finery will remind me of his high station and in some manner affect the severity of my judgment. He is wrong.

All of this regalia would be most impressive were the man standing. But he’s not. In the groveling position it has no effect at all. The most wretched Nile peasant in his loincloth has equal stature with an aristocrat, when forced to crawl face-down.

His face remains hidden, but I know it well. Arrogant and serene, confident, under normal circumstances. Supercilious, in that manner one must be born to in order to acquire. All haughtiness has vanished this day. As has become the fashion among some of the higher placed nobility, his beard is tiny and square-shaped, carefully barbered and curled, imitating my own. Not as full and luxuriant as mine, of course—none in Egypt would be that foolish. Most Egyptians other than some of the nobility remain beardless, but considering I have virtually no hair on my head, I find the beard to be of some compensation. I first saw such impressive facial growth on an ambassador from the East, and rather fancied it. Beards have now become fashionable, at least here in the palace. Courtiers, sycophants that they are, slavishly ape their pharaoh. Few wore beards when I was just a grand vizier.

Khefer’s beard is dark. So was mine, for the most part, until I became pharaoh. Now, already, it is largely white, with but a few streaks of darker hue remaining. At least my beard remains perfectly shaped. Khefer’s, from the rivers of sweat pouring down his face, has become uncurled, dank and scraggly.

I don’t relish what I must do, but I have no choice. You would have me disregard the findings of my own court? I thunder at him pitilessly, concealing the anguish I felt in my heart, not for the man, but for his family. Khefer keeps his forehead planted hard against the floor. He isn’t exactly whimpering now, just emitting a few strange mewling sounds, like a chastened cat. A moth whirls and settles on his head, oblivious to the drama into which he has unknowingly intruded.

The air in the audience chamber now seemed to become even more oppressive than usual. I welcome the gentle breeze created by my two royal fanbearers as their heavy ostrich-feathered fans move noiselessly through the stale air, creating a delightful zephyr that passes lightly over my perspiring skin. Were it not for them I’m not certain I could stand a whole day of this sort of thing.

Since you are of an ancient and noble line, Khefer, I took special pains with you, I continue solemnly. My own personal scribes, two cupbearers, two treasurers, and a herald were personally selected by me, to be certain you were judged fairly. I could have left the findings to the magistrates, but they can be easily corrupted. I took these special pains for the sake of your family and their past services, despite the fact that your crime was directed against the person of your pharaoh. The court has found ample evidence of your guilt. I took a certain grim satisfaction in saying this. I had indeed inquired closely into Khefer’s case, even though I am a busy man.

Most merciful master (Life! Health! Strength!), Khefer pleads, pathetically, now lifting his head so that teary eyes look up at me, even though this is a definite breach of protocol. No doubt he feels he has nothing to lose. In this he is absolutely correct. Their findings were secured through torture! A note of defiance creeps into his voice. Good for him! "Their witnesses were tortured most severely! Of course they would name me. They would have named anyone! I have done no wrong. This I swear by Amun and Osiris and all the gods of Egypt. May my akh [Translator’s note: his human spirit] be denied its rightful passage to eternal life, may my tomb be desecrated and nothing set aside for my final journey, if I speak falsely!"

I pondered this carefully, while Khefer’s tear-streaked face gazes up at me imploringly, rivulets making a ruin of his almond-shaped eye makeup. The man has a point. I am keenly aware that although our legal system, based on torture, most efficiently ferrets out criminals, their actual guilt is another matter altogether. Still, it certainly gets the job done, and swiftly.

Your accomplices have all confessed their crime, I pursued implacably. They have confessed securing the sacred Book of Ousirmare Miamun, the great god. They have confessed to using it in composing written spells and constructing wax figures so that their magic would cause me, your pharaoh, to have my limbs debilitate and wither.

But why, majesty, would I ever join in such a conspiracy? Khefer protested, his voice firming. He now seems able to get a grip on himself. No man is more loyal to your person than I! Both I and my entire family! We have served all pharaohs faithfully throughout our generations. This you know.

This was true. The why of the whole affair still puzzled me. Still, I could not go against the findings of my own court of inquiry, however skeptical I was of their methods. This is a pity if Khefer is indeed innocent. Oh, well. If he is, he will not be given to the Eater of the Dead when the dread god Thoth judges him. If we err in this world, the gods will make it right in the next. This thought always comforts me.

You sought by your magical spells to undermine my sense of duty and to gain undue favor for yourself, your family, and your fellow conspirators, I pronounced in the doomsday voice I reserve for condemned criminals. All this is abundantly clear from the evidence procured by my inquisitors, and I have no reason to doubt them.

Of a sudden, and to my utter astonishment, Khefer rose to his feet, looking me straight in the eye, squaring his shoulders and clenching his fist. I am an innocent man, he proclaimed stoutly, and you are no true pharaoh. The god-blood does not flow in your veins. Who are you to condemn me? My family is far more ancient, and far more noble, than ever was yours. This he said without any quiver in his voice.

I could not have been more surprised if he had suddenly transformed himself into a god right before my very eyes. I felt the blood drain from my face. He had struck a very sensitive nerve. I imagine I must have paled to a shade of white linen, and for one with my complexion, that required considerable fading indeed.

At first, almost against my will, I applauded his bravery, late in coming though it might be. Then I realized that this was no bravery at all, but mere bravado. He knew he was condemned. He had nothing to lose.

Well, almost nothing. He knew he was to die, but he forgot that I had the power to determine the manner of it. My initial impulse was to make him suffer every torture my gaolers could conceive, and they are the most ingenious of men in this regard. But in the back of my mind I had a suspicion that Khefer was indeed innocent.

I paused for dramatic effect. You have insulted your pharaoh to his face, I declared in my most pharaonic of voices. No man does this and escapes without punishment. Nonetheless, I have it in my mind to be exceptionally lenient with you, in light of all the past services your family has done for my household. I shall overlook your slander, nor will I cause you pain before you die. Neither shall I deny you burial in your House of Eternity, nor will I deny you all the necessities for stocking your House so that your eternal life will be comfortable, as befits one of noble birth. This I do despite your treasonous words. All things shall be done as befits your station. All save one. No statuettes of naked women will be included, so that your eternity will lack the company of females. Also, and I took a very deep breath, "you shall be interred in your House of Eternity alive, and the entrance shall be sealed. You will have time to ponder your rashness. Each day the temple priests will visit and peer inside, and when you have at last crossed to the other bank [Translator’s note: Egyptians did not care to say ‘die’, and this was the common euphemism] all things will be done properly for you."

I made a gesture, and two of my palace guards grabbed each arm of the once-more-sobbing wretch, dragging him roughly backward, until he disappeared from the audience chamber. I had expected him to shout or scream or struggle, given his last-minute gesture of defiance, but he did none of these things. I imagine he simply fainted.

You may find the punishment harsh, even considering his rash, intemperate words; you may even think he may be innocent. But you are not pharaoh. The crime of which Khefer was accused is the worst possible, since it involved an attack on the very throne itself. I could have been even harder on him. And not just with harsh tortures. I could have consigned him to a fate that denied him eternal life once he crossed to the other bank. I could have confiscated his wealth and stripped his family and his heirs of their noble rank. I did none of these things. So you see, I am not so terrible after all.

By doing what I did, however, I made certain that it would be quite some time before any other group of conspirators made an attempt upon the person of their pharaoh. All things considered, I felt I’d dealt with the matter quite well.

I am already weary, and long to set aside the crook and flail of office, but my day is nowhere near done. Just beginning, really. At least the worst is over. Or so I thought.

Aanen is next. Aanen the Insufferable. Aanen, High Priest of Amun, most powerful and feared prelate in all the land, custodian of the Great Temple at Karnak.

I am devout, and have been so all my life, well before I became an anointed god. Nevertheless, I find ecclesiastical matters a constant irritant. Given my station in life, these duties are a necessary and unavoidable bore and do little to put me in a decent frame of mind. Nor does Aanen help.

The man has nothing of wit about him, nor respect for my time. Not that he lacks intelligence—quite the contrary. Intelligence is his most potent quality, which makes him such a danger to the throne. His status as High Priest gives him powers almost equal to mine.

He utterly lacks humor and spontaneity. He might as well be a carved granite statue for all the joy of life he possesses. Upon reflection, perhaps I might be a trifle harsh. Maybe there is humor in him. However, he is not the type to whom one would ever make a joke, so there is no way of knowing.

He carries himself with an infuriating air of righteousness, his pinched nose always sniffing as though searching out the faintest odor of heresy or disrespect. All he cares about is power. He is cunning, and vicious. A snake, poisonous, with fangs that might strike at any time. As High Priest his position is virtually unassailable, and he takes full advantage of it.

Aanen is the sort that gives clerics a bad name. Purse-lipped and sour, like a man with permanent indigestion. An aura of gloom permanently surrounds him. He never smiles. Well, that’s not quite true. He smiles when he brings bad news. Other than that, he is juiceless and rigid. Were one to stick a bronze needle into him, I doubt if he would bleed. Were one to poke a finger in his eye, I doubt if he would blink. It is impossible to imagine him having any natural functions at all.

He never drinks, other than wine when liturgically required. At least, he does not to my personal knowledge. Perhaps he does, in his own chambers, but I rather doubt it.

What he does have is all his hair. Yet even that full head of hair of his, tightly close-combed to his head and heavily pomaded, contributes to the angular severity of his features, doing nothing to enhance his appearance. His eyes are hooded. One of them doesn’t quite track with the other, creating a most unsettling impression. Because of this, you never feel you’re truly looking the man in the eye. I suppose that’s not his fault, but it’s nevertheless a real annoyance.

He is quite tall, and quite thin. There I have the advantage of him, a source of great satisfaction to me. I, though only of average height, am of significant girth. I am a man of heft, of substance. Aanen is not. Why Aanen remains so trim, considering that to the best of my knowledge the man never exerts himself, defies explanation. But that is his problem.

Of all his qualities, it is his superb voice that stupefies. Quite astonishing, really, particularly coming from a man so tightly restrained. How that mellifluous voice, that river of molten silver, can flow from such a pinchface is truly a marvel of the gods and helps prove that they know what they are doing. When Aanen sings the sacred hymns, his face illuminates. The fervor and power of his voice reverberates from the walls of the sacred temple. All, peasant or pharaoh, know they are in the presence of divinity. His voice, filled with heartfelt passion, soars majestically upwards so that gods and men alike cannot help but be moved and uplifted by its majesty. The clouds themselves, all golden in the sun, part in reverential awe when he sings in the temple courtyard as the lyrical notes ascend skyward to the heavens. Birds cease their singing in shame at the inadequacy of their efforts. That voice, that gift, makes up for all the rest.

Of all men in Egypt, Aanen is the only one I truly fear. His powers are enormous. They frighten me. As High Priest of Amun he possesses magical skills known but to him alone, passed down from High Priest to High Priest for millions of years. I have seen this man work magic with my own eyes, and had I not been witness myself I would not believe the miracles he can conjure. The priests keep meticulous records, so no wonder-working knowledge is ever lost. It only grows, as bit by bit, generation by generation, the priests learn new magic to add to their arcane store.

By virtue of his position he holds sway over the minds of my people. I would hate to have it come to a test between him and me, should the people ever be placed in the position of having to choose whose orders to obey. I am their pharaoh and their living god. But Aanen speaks to Amun and Aanen alone has the power to offer ordinary men immortal life in return for extraordinary service to the Lord God Amun, which in practical terms means extraordinary service to Aanen himself.

Luckily for me, Aanen has never shown signs of temporal ambition and seems content with his post as High Priest. Nonetheless, I make sure he rarely leaves the sacred temple at Karnak, and when he does, is watched most closely and kept as much as possible out of the eye of the general populace. More than once in Egypt’s history, a High Priest has managed to conspire himself onto the throne on which I sit.

This day he looks, which I would have sworn impossible, more severe than ever. This does not bode well. His lips are compressed so tight they nearly disappear. His eyes are constricted, mere slits. They look at me down his long, angular nose. That look has doom in it. I have seen it before, and I brace myself. Something akin to a smile plays upon his lips.

The auguries for the coming year are bad, Aanen pronounced in that sonorous, fluid voice of his. Very bad. The worst I have ever seen. He made this statement with an expression of self-satisfaction that made me want to hit him. Aanen is the sort that enjoys disasters, provided they afflict other people.

For Aanen to get to the point without endless preamble immediately caught my attention. No one enjoys the sound of that gorgeous voice more than Aanen himself, so for Aanen to be brief is a very, very bad sign. What I am about to hear must be very ominous indeed. I braced myself.

I sighed. I did not wish to hear any more, but I am pharaoh. I must hear what my High Priest reveals. Particularly when it is bad. This is another part of the price of being a god. The worst is knowing how much pleasure Aanen takes in unctuously passing along bad news to me.

He stood before me with an expectant look on his face. As High Priest and lord of the sacred temple at Karnak, he is one of the rare personalities in all Egypt that is not required to grovel before me. I heartily wish this were not so. There are few men in all the land I would more enjoy seeing kneel in that ridiculous position. Even I, as grand vizier, had been forced to grovel before my own grandson Tutankhamen, and since I heartily dislike Aanen, having him of all men standing in my presence is an annoyance I find increasingly difficult to tolerate. But tolerate it I must. Oh, I suppose I could command him to grovel, and put our relative strength to the test. I dismiss the thought. If there ever is to be a test of strength, of wills, between us, let it not be over such a triviality.

I am not without my own devices. Letting him wait while that expectant look freezes firmer and firmer on his face gives me a certain amount of mild satisfaction. I simply look at him, watching as sweat gathered heavier on his brow. Thebes of course is always beastly hot, and even the thick mud-brick walls of my palace are no help in keeping out the constant heat. When I was Tut’s grand vizier I had instituted the practice of starting these audiences in the late part of the day to take advantage of the relative coolness of the evening hours, but this is only a partial help.

Meanwhile, I let him sweat. His splendid ceremonial gown, all gold-embroidered and emblazoned with signs of the zodiac, wilts and dampens as I watch. Good. When he had first come his robe had swirled about him, rippling like the waters of a breeze-swept pond. No longer. Now it simply hangs from his shoulders like sodden papyrus. But I too am wilting and dampening, so the game can be played only so long.

Finally relenting, wiping my pate with a fine linen handkerchief, I simply said, Tell me more.

With audible relief Aanen gathered himself. He gave me a look which only Aanen has mastered, a look of defiant pride and scorn mixed with servile obsequiousness. I’ve been Amun’s priest for better than a quarter of a century, he stated solemnly, with that superior, irritating intonation of his, and it is my sacred duty to read the auguries for the reign of the new pharaoh. This takes time—many months, many months. Many rituals, many purifications, many ceremonies, many incantations, many lustrations, many immolations, many...

Get on with it, Aanen. Get on with it, I snapped impatiently. By Amun, that man can be infuriating, without even trying. Get to the point, man, I snapped. ‘Get to the point!"

He glared at me, deeply aggrieved, or in any case as aggrieved as he dared to permit himself to show, and drew himself up even taller. Very well, pharaoh, he intoned, lifting his eyes heavenward, silently calling upon the gods to witness the indignities he must endure in their service. He paused, just to further annoy me. I’m certain of that. In all justice I have to concede that he is entitled, considering I’ve just done the same to him.

At length he continued. Never, he stated firmly, never have I seen so many omens of catastrophe. First, of course, are the sacred prophecies in the Holy Book of Amun. These are, blessedly, on occasion somewhat ambiguous and subject to a variety of interpretations. Still, given all the other auguries and omens and signs and portents, it’s unmistakable that this year is the ‘Year of Implacable Evils’ prophesied by the Book. Everything fits.

What fits? I inquired guardedly, knowing all too well that nothing in this world would stop him from telling me, and with great relish.

The Book states that there will be the mad pharaoh, then the boy pharaoh, then the...

Aanen stopped in confusion.

Go on! I ordered peremptorily.

He dropped his eyes.

What does the Book say?

It says, he went on, avoiding looking me in the face, that after the mad pharaoh and the boy pharaoh, the ‘Year of Implacable Evil’ will take place in the second year of the reign of the next pharaoh. It will be a year in which the entire land of Egypt will be grievously afflicted, and the populace will groan under the weight of calamities beyond number and beyond precedent.

And this ‘next’ pharaoh, I persisted. What does the Book say of him?

He couldn’t look me in the eye. But then again, with those eyes of his that never quite track, he never could. He shook his head slightly. I’d really rather not say. Say it!

Truly, pharaoh, I cannot.

He was so obvious I almost laughed out loud. He was dying to tell me. He could hardly wait to tell me. Say it, man, say it! I thundered. This is why you came here, so spit it out!

As you command, if I must. I could see the satisfaction in his eyes. He breathed in, then out, drawing out the moment as long as he could. At last he said it. It refers to an old one, a fat one, a usurper, one whose reign shall be filled with disasters.

I nearly leapt from my throne. Not in anger at the insults, mind you. Much as I disliked Aanen, I could not fault him for what was written in the Book, particularly since I had forced him to reveal it to me. The unflattering description scarce bothered me at all. I am a man of little vanity, and while I would prefer to think of myself otherwise, old and fat are not unfairly descriptive of me. I am all of those things, and more. My nose is quite large and sits prominently on my face. My skin, dark and wrinkled from years in the sun, makes me look all of my fifty-eight years. More, probably. My legs are thin in proportion to the weight they must bear, and the simple act of standing becomes more difficult with each day. Of late I’ve noticed a mole or wart of some kind on the right side of my face that seems to be getting larger. It is most unbecoming. To my considerable annoyance, while Aanen watched, my left eye started to twitch.

Aanen had just pronounced words which I had been expecting from the moment I seized this throne. With this act, I had doomed Egypt, and myself.

From the moment I seized this throne I have feared retribution for my crime, for I am a usurper, and nothing can erase that fact. But, until someone steals this throne from me, I am king, and I will act like one.

Well, Aanen, I know there’s more, I said resignedly, bracing myself. Tell me more. All of it. Spare me nothing.

Aanen seemed to take courage from this, sensing that I wasn’t going to hold him personally responsible for the messages sent by the gods. From the look on his face I could see the perverse enjoyment he was taking from the narrative of woes with which he was preparing to inundate me. How I wanted to seize a flywhisk and slash that unctuous, tight-lipped, self-satisfied grimace from that over-righteous face of his. In his eagerness to inundate me with his message of woe he gave no indication of noticing my suppressed fury.

The prophecy of the Book, though clear in its implications, is not specific, he continued, his bony fingers making strange, grasping motions, like the talons of a hawk. I sought more precise information. Regrettably, I found it. Every divination, every incantation to every god produced the same result. Disaster. Specifically, famine. Great famine throughout the land, and no time left for us to prepare for it. Pestilence too. The land will be devastated and our physicians and magicians shall have no remedies...

I interrupted him irritably. Of course there will be pestilence if there is famine, I snapped. There always is. They go together. When the people starve, they get sick. It takes no gods or auguries to tell me that.

He looked hurt. Good.

Do you have anything more?

He drew himself up with great dignity. Three days ago I performed the prophecy-ritual as prescribed, in the innermost shrine of Karnak, and in deepest secrecy. This he pronounced in that sepulchral intonation I have always found immensely irritating. "I made all the proper sacrifices, according to prescribed form. All the area through which I passed I purified with the scent of turpentine-resin. I broke the golden seal of the sacred door behind which the statue of Maat, god of Truth, was concealed, and drew Maat