May she flow away—she who comes in the darkness,
Who enters in furtively
With her nose behind her, her face turned backward—
Failing in that for which she came!
Have you come to kiss this child?
I will not let you kiss him!
Have you come to harm him?
I will not let you harm him!
Have you come to take him away?
I will not let you take him away from me!
Kneeling on the bare earthen floor, the woman chants softly, lest she wake the child asleep in her arms. The little one-room hut is dark except for the dim red glow from the brazier, where the cooking fire still smolders. A last expiring flame leaps up and shows the crouching form more clearly: a slender brown girl with long black hair and dark eyes—eyes that dart glances half-defiant, half-apprehensive toward the door. It is closed and barred, but she can feel the dark pressing in—the dark from which “she with her face turned backward” may enter furtively, to steal the breath of the sleeping child.
I see this picture whenever I read the lines quoted above. They are singularly moving lines, even in translation; the original text was written several thousand years ago, in the ancient Egyptian language. Surely the night-demon is one of the most dreadful specters in the folklore of any people, with her head twisted about on her neck, and with the suggestion of melting shapelessness in the words “flow away.” Like the old Scottish prayer against “ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night,” this Egyptian spell carries a hint of diabolic danger which is all the more terrifying for never being made explicit.
There is another point of similarity between the Scottish poem and the Egyptian one. We quote the first as a joke nowadays, laughing and pretending to look nervously over our shoulders; but like its Egyptian counterpart, it was neither a joke nor an exercise in literature for its own sake. It was a charm—a prayer, if you will—against the powers of evil. In both examples we have first a description of the threatening forces. Then the counterspell is recited. In the Egyptian example, defensive measures take the form of powerful denials, made more potent by mounting repetition—“I will not let you kiss him! I will not let you harm him!”—and also by a recipe of magic herbs, which I have not quoted. In the Scottish prayer the invocation of defensive powers is simple—“Good Lord, deliver us.”
Well, we mustn’t press the comparison too far; it has no significance, except to show that many people, in many times and places, have been afraid of the dark and of that which may come out of the dark. What touches me most about this Egyptian prayer is that it is designed for the protection of children. There is no sphere of life in which man feels his vulnerability to the caprice of Fate more poignantly than in that which threatens his children; and at no time in his life is he more helpless than when he comes into it, naked and squalling. This book concerns itself with the daily life of the ancient Egyptians, so it is fitting that we should begin when the Egyptian began—at birth. Having pronounced the proper protective incantation, we may proceed to bring our fictitious baby into the world.
Once upon a time there was an Egyptian lady who attracted the interest of no less a personage than the great sun-god, Re. Perhaps the god’s attentions were motivated not so much by the lady’s charms as by his desire to produce three offspring who would eventually rule the land of Egypt. Yet the lady was only the wife of a humble priest of Re; his name was Rauser, and hers was Reddjetet, and…
One day it happened that Reddjetet felt the pains of labor; and her labor was hard. So the majesty of Re said to Isis, Nephthys, Meskhenet, Hekat, and Khnum, “Go on and deliver Reddjetet of the three children who are in her womb, and who will exercise the kingship in the entire land.
The informed reader will recognize in Isis and Nephthys two of the great goddesses of the Egyptian pantheon; they were the wife and sister of Osiris. Meskhenet was another goddess—a patroness of childbirth, appropriately enough. Khnum, the only male in the party, also had a role in creation. He was the potter who fashioned the bodies of newborn children, in clay, on his divine wheel. Heket assisted at the birth of the sun-god each morning, so she was a logical person to supervise the birth of his children.
The goddesses disguised themselves as dancing girls, with the lordly Khnum as their porter, and all five of them set out for the priest’s house. They found the purported father-to-be in a pitiable state, which is described with concise eloquence by the Egyptian author: he was “sitting motionless, his clothing in disarray.” To me, the priest is a most sympathetic character. Although he was desperately worried about his wife, he took the trouble to speak courteously to the itinerant entertainers: “You see, ladies, the mistress of the house is in labor; and her labor is hard.” The dancing girls took up their cue. “Let us see her. We know how to facilitate a birth.”
The father could not refuse the offer; Re, looking down from his golden boat, would see to that. Still, we have a feeling that it was a natural suggestion. The function of midwife was not a medical specialty. As in most pre-industrial societies, including that of medieval Europe, a woman in labor was probably attended by the other women in the house or the village, with a local “wise woman” on call in case the situation became complicated. Even a dancing girl might claim special skill in obstetrics, and the distracted husband’s response is perfectly understandable. At that point he would have been willing to try anything and anybody. He gave the five divinities his permission, and they locked themselves up with the lady.
“Then Isis put herself before her, Nephthys behind her, and Hekat assisted the birth.” In this case the assistance was mostly magical: potent spells pronounced by a divinity. After not one but three babies had been delivered, the goddesses came out to reassure the husband, who, overcome by gratitude, paid them with a sack of grain “in order to make beer.”
Since the three babies were given, by Isis, the names of the first three kings of the Fifth Dynasty, one cannot help but suspect this pretty tale has a political element. The text doesn’t tell us much about the actual process of childbirth. Fortunately there are a few other sources, so we know that the Egyptian mother gave birth squatting, her feet raised on bricks, supported fore and aft by two women of the house hold, while the midwife knelt in front of her ready to receive the child. The hieroglyphic sign meaning “to give birth” depicts her position; it is that of a kneeling, very pregnant woman, with the arms and head of the baby already out. The squatting position makes better sense in some ways than a recumbent position; the lady had the force of gravity to assist her.
Considering how often they were employed, it is surprising that until very recently we had no examples of these birth bricks, as they are called. Maybe the majority just wore out and were discarded; new mud bricks aren’t that hard to make. However, a University of Pennsylvania Museum expedition at Abydos came across a single example—one of a pair, one must assume—that was elegantly painted with scenes of protective deities and a mother holding an infant. It measures fourteen by seven inches, and the top, say the excavators, was badly worn. I’m not surprised.
In poorer families one room of the house would be used when the day came, but there are references to and depictions of special birth pavilions—light, temporary garden buildings where a wealthier lady could enjoy fresh air and garden flowers. A number of houses in a village built for the workmen who toiled on the royal tombs have odd little structures in the front rooms—enclosed, raised platforms which have been identified by some scholars as “birth boxes.” I remain dubious about this, simply because the houses were small and it would seem extravagant of space to set aside a particular place for a particularly limited activity. But maybe the “birth boxes” served other functions at other times.
One potential source of information has proved a disappointment; the medical papyri, though they include one of a specific gynecological nature, give no information about labor or the methods of the obstetrician. There are spells for “releasing a child from the belly of its mother” and a number of other helpful magical aids, but not much in the way of practical information.
It may seem surprising that the Egyptians, who preserved for us so many details of the activities of life and death, left so little information about the essentials preliminary to the first. Yet the seeming wealth of documentation is illusory; it is only rich by comparison with other pre-Greek societies. An Egyptologist can read, during his professional lifetime, every single document written by the ancient Egyptians—all the original source materials—and still have time to read most of the secondary sources. Admittedly it would keep him pretty busy, but a scholar in any field of modern history would be hard-pressed to do this for a period of thirty years, let alone three thousand. He probably couldn’t even cover the source materials—the novelists and essayists, major and minor, the wills and other legal documents, the personal and business letters, the treaties and laws, the scientific treatises….
I make this point, not to gloat over the thoroughness of the student of Egyptology, but to mourn for his limited sources. Books on ancient Egypt often give the reader a misleading impression, presenting hypotheses as if they were facts and possibilities as if they were certainties. Some of this is inevitable; one cannot explain in painful detail the evidential background for every statement. But the most reliable books are loaded with boring words like “probably” and “perhaps” and “possibly” scholars avoid “maybe” for stylistic reasons, but it should be prefixed to at least 50 percent of the statements made in any book on Egypt—including this one.
We cannot conclude, when we know nothing about a particular facet of Egyptian culture, that it was either non ex is tent or produced by some “lost science” or occult power. We are ignorant only because that particular body of information has not survived four thousand years of time, or because the Egyptians did not bother to tell us about it. Egyptian culture was literate, but it was not self-analytical, nor was writing a universal skill. The Egyptians were busy people; they had fields to sow and harvest and irrigate, pyramids to build, battles to fight, and tombs to equip; they preserved in writing only the things they needed to know, not all the matters which might be of interest to alien peoples in some unimaginable future. It is no wonder we know so little about childbirth; in fact, it is surprising that we know as much as we do.
THE PEOPLE IN ART
Having gotten our Egyptian into the world, we can now ask what sort of person he or she was. Habits and beliefs and mannerisms will emerge, let us hope, in future pages. We will restrict ourselves here to physical characteristics. But before describing the Egyptians as they look to us, it might be interesting to see them first through their own eyes. How did they want to look? What was the ideal physical type?
Paintings and sculptures give a good idea of the desired norm. In fact, the similarity of the types depicted, the lack of deviation, is astounding when you consider the number of centuries involved—from somewhere in the neighborhood of 3000 B.C. (give or take a few hundred years) down to the first century of our own era. The ladies are slim, so slender that their bodies look almost flat in profile from waist to knee. Rounded hips were evidently not admired; shapely breasts were. The ladies in the paintings have small but firm bosoms, and some of the mummies of older women, whose natural equipment had sagged under the relentless pressure of the years, were stuffed with wax or sawdust in the pectoral region to give the necessary curves. One late mummy, described by Grafton Elliot Smith in his classic book on mummification, had an entirely new body surface molded over the withered flesh in a kind of papier-mâché made of bandages and resinous paste. The breasts were beautifully modeled and tipped with copper buttons. This mummy is uniquely well made; Smith says, enthusiastically, that it resembles an exquisite statue of Venus.
The male physique which became the model for sculptors of kings and commoners was one which moderns would approve—very broad shoulders tapering down to a flat abdomen and lean flanks. When customers came to a sculptor to order statues of themselves or hired an artist to paint their forms on the walls of their tombs, it was in bodies like these that they expected to appear.
There are exceptions to this rule. Some of them are famous, known to every working Egyptologist, just because they are exceptions: the old blind harper, with his bent shoulders and wrinkled face; the emaciated herdsman, whose ribs stand out under his skin; the dwarf, sitting on a platform beside his normal-size wife, so that they appear to be approximately the same height. The art of the Amarna Period is exceptional too. We’ll talk about that later. Some of the exceptions are superb pieces of the sculptor’s or painter’s art.
One of my favorites is the figure we call the “Sheikh el Beled.” This means “Mayor of the Village,” and the way in which the statue came by its name makes a nice little story.
The Mayor was found by Auguste Mariette, one of the great French Egyptologists of the nineteenth century. For me, the names of Mariette and Gaston Maspero, like ham and eggs, always go together: Mariette, the founder of the Egyptian Antiquities Service, who established the regulations which restricted the plundering of tombs and temples by European excavators; and Maspero, his equally dedicated successor. Though Mariette had to supervise all the archaeological work carried on in Egypt in order to make sure the rules were being followed, he liked to do some digging of his own. One morning his workers were shoveling away when the head and shoulders of a statue came into sight. The statue was carefully freed from its covering; and as it was drawn out of the earth, a simultaneous gasp of recognition came from a dozen throats. “The Sheikh el Beled!” they cried with one accord.
One can easily believe, looking at the statue—which is now in the Cairo Museum—that it reminded the men of their mayor. It looks like someone I used to know too. The figure is life-sized, carved of wood and cunningly fitted together at the joints. The form is that of a man of middle age, rather portly, with a round face which combines joviality and firmness. He stands in the conventional Egyptian attitude, stepping forward, one foot before the other. One arm hangs at his side. The other hand holds a long walking stick which is obviously, despite his corpulence, designed for prestige rather than support. He is a man of dignity and of authority. The eyes of the figure are incredibly lifelike; they seem to stare back at the beholder, not with the expressionless blankness of wood but with calm curiosity. Indeed, the eyes are masterpieces of craftsmanship. The eye sockets are lined with copper, and the eyeballs are composites of inlaid pieces—opaque quartz for the white of the eye, rock crystal for the cornea, and a little round cylinder, filled with dark resin and sunken behind the crystal cornea, for the pupil. The statue is probably over four thousand years old. That it survived at all is due to the miracle of the dry Egyptian climate.
The Sheikh, whose real name was Ka-aper, is broader around the middle than at the shoulders; he certainly doesn’t exemplify manly beauty, like the majority of the other male statues. But he is a handsome figure in his way. He is portly, not fat. Indeed, he is a joy to behold. So is Hemiun, the vizier of the great king Khufu, who had the rolls of fat around his midsection faithfully reproduced. The same characteristic shows up with other high officials; it may have been a visual demonstration of leisure and wealth. But the great majority of Egyptians, male and female, are shown with youthful, well-shaped bodies and well-formed features. (The famous Queen of Punt, who is certainly shaped like a nightmare, is not an Egyptian; barbarians were not entitled to the same courtesies as were inhabitants of the great land of Egypt.)
Scholars who are specialists in Egyptian art have explained the reason for the persistence of the artistic norm. This involves profound speculations on Egyptian mass psychology, attitudes toward the universe, and the function of art—which served a magical rather than an aesthetic function. We’ll go into this later. But it amuses me to wonder if there might not be another, more simpleminded reason in operation when an Egyptian merchant stalked into a sculptor’s studio to order his mortuary statue. Who would choose to have his double chin and protruding belly immortalized when he can go down to posterity looking like Apollo? Of course, if you were a big man in the bureaucracy, you might prefer to show yourself as big around physically.
Queen of Punt
THE PROBLEM OF QUEEN TIYE
History is not a series of facts; it is a series of opinions and theories, some solidly based, some sheer nonsense, most more or less probable. Unless a historian who is writing a book confines himself to a particular problem within a limited era of history, he cannot possibly explain all the evidence, pro and con, or give all the variant theories for every debatable problem. There are too many debatable problems! Yet it is important to remember how flimsy some of our historical reconstructions actually are, and it is interesting to see how some of them have developed.
We have been talking about a fairly basic point—the physical appearance of the ancient Egyptians. It is not an important point, in terms of cultural history, nor does it seem like a difficult one. Either you know what people looked like, or you don’t know. Either you have mummies and skeletons, or you lack them. Either these people painted pictures and sculpted statues of themselves, or they didn’t.
Physical remains and pictorial representations are the basic sources for the description of a human being. But the relative reliability of these sources may be quite different. A skeleton is finite and objective. It can tell us height, build, sex, and age. With a mummy we get more data—hair color and texture, skin color, body weight. Even this evidence is subject to variation because it must be interpreted by human beings. Read the learned discussions on the skeleton which was believed to be Akhenaton’s if you doubt that two qualified physicians can disagree on anything as solid as bones.
The evidence derived from pictures and statues is extremely subjective. We have seen that the Egyptians didn’t show themselves as they actually looked. Some scholars, not to mention the writers of popular books on Egypt (except this one) are inclined to see what they want to see. Usually they do this to fit some theory or other. Take the case of Queen Tiye, the commoner who rose to be King’s Great Wife and mother of the heretic Akhenaton. She has been described as blue-eyed and fair, and as a dark-skinned Nubian.
It doesn’t really matter whether Queen Tiye was blond or black or spotted with purple polka dots, and yet descriptions like these are vexing. They are not wild flights of fancy on the part of writers who are not specialists in the field; they are based on interpretations of professional Egyptologists. How, then, can they be so disparate?
The answer is obvious: because the learned authorities are talking about pictures, not people, and because their theories are influenced by unconscious preconceptions. Let’s take the fair queens of Egypt to begin with. I discussed them in another book, but this point seems to require repetition. As far as I know, there never was a blond queen of Egypt. The famous Fourth Dynasty lady, Hetepheres, who was believed to be blond or redheaded, has been shown to be wearing a yellow head-cloth. Most mummies that have fair or red hair didn’t have it in life; white and even dark hair reacts to the chemicals used in the embalming process. I should add, for the sake of strict accuracy, that certain neighboring peoples, particularly the Libyan tribes, could have had blue or gray eyes and fair hair. Interbreeding, which certainly went on, might occasionally turn up a redheaded Egyptian. One of the leading candidates is Ramses II. I can’t help wondering how the experts can be so sure, since his hair was pure white by the time he died. The embalmers died it red, with henna.
The view that Queen Tiye was a Nubian is more popular than the blue-eyed version; although I hesitate to accuse scholars of succumbing to such obvious fallacies, I suspect that one reason for this belief is the wonderful little head in Berlin that is usually identified as that of Queen Tiye.
The personality suggested by this marvelous sculpture is not the kind you would want to live with permanently, nor make an enemy of. This impression may be unfair to the long-dead queen, but the impact of the head cannot be denied. Because it is so expert, so evocative, it makes a lasting impression. It is carved of black wood.
The real evidence about Tiye’s ancestry is available—objective and indisputable. Not her mummy—at least I don’t believe the woman’s mummy from one of the royal caches is hers, though there was a huge sensation in Egyptological circles when this claim was made. It is based on electron analysis of the hair of the mummy in question and that of a lock of hair found in Tutankhamon’s tomb, in a box bearing Tiye’s name. The identification has been questioned by a number of people, on a number of different grounds. Believe me, it’s too complicated to go into here.
However, we do have the mummies of both Tiye’s parents, Yuya and Thuya, which were discovered by Theodore Davis in 1905. Davis was one of those enthusiastic millionaire amateurs who were not uncommon in the early days of Egyptology. Like Lord Carnarvon twenty years later, he spent his winters in the genial climate of Egypt and amused himself by excavating. From Maspero, head of the Antiquities Department, he obtained the firman, or concession, to dig in the Valley of the Kings. He paid for the work he conducted and was given in return any objects the Cairo Museum didn’t want. Maspero was much more generous than some of his successors; the collection Davis left to the Metropolitan Museum at his death includes some remarkable pieces.
One must give credit to men like Davis for sponsoring such excavations. However…let’s put it this way. Even his friends described Davis as “brusque and eccentric.” The terms of his firman required that he have a professional Egyptologist on tap while he was digging in the Valley, but on several occasions he got around the professionals and their boss Maspero, presumably because he couldn’t wait to see what was in the new tomb. Among the royal tombs he found were those of Thutmose IV, Hatshepsut, Siptah of the Twentieth Dynasty, and the cache containing the disputed mummy which has been successively identified as that of Queen Tiye, Akhenaton, and the latter’s successor, Smenkhkare. This last discovery has been described, possibly by me, as one of the most aggravatingly botched excavations in the Valley of the Kings.
In January 1905, Davis was being supervised by James Quibell, the very competent Inspector for Upper Egypt. On February 5 Davis’s men uncovered the top step of a rock cut stair. Davis sent for Arthur Weigall, who had replaced Quibell—the story has it that Quibell found the bossy American such a pain in the neck he asked for a transfer—and about a week later the steps were dug out and the top of the tomb doorway appeared. The excavators’ excitement was dimmed by the discovery that the original seals on the door had been broken. Someone—thieves, undoubtedly—had been there before them.
They were in for a pleasant surprise. The funerary chamber lay just beyond the door, with no intervening passages. Within it were two sarcophagi, each holding nested coffins. All the lids were off; they had been flung aside, as if in guilty haste. The mummies lay exposed, their face wrappings torn off, within the innermost coffins. One “was the mummy of an old man of striking appearance and dignity. His splendid head and fine features bore a striking resemblance to Lincoln.”
So wrote a contemporary observer, who was with Davis at the first moment of entry. The other mummy was that of a woman. “The face was serene and interesting, a low brow and eyes wide apart, and a curiously expressive, sensitive mouth.”
The chamber was packed with wonders: boxes and furniture, a chariot, perfectly intact, the gleam of gold on the inner two coffins of the mummies, the blue faience ornaments. Thieves had tunneled into the tomb, but evidently they had been interrupted before they did much damage. Best of all, the inscriptions on the coffins and other articles had not been mutilated. The identity of the mummies was easily discovered. They were Yuya and Thuya, the parents of Queen Tiye.
Wonderful as the contents of the tomb were, the most important aspect of the discovery, for our present purposes, was the identity of the mummies. The descriptions quoted are accurate enough, if one allows for the sensitive imagination of the beholder. I lack this kind of imagination. I can’t look at the wrinkled face of a mummy—leathery brown skin and shrunken lips, protruding teeth, sunken cheeks—and tell myself that the lady may, in life, have been the toast of ancient Thebes. The bones, the basic structure of beauty, still remain; one can describe a brow as oval and high, a set of teeth as even and white. But the mental picture disintegrates under the impact of the grisly face.
However, the mummy of Yuya, Tiye’s father, isn’t bad. Yuya, who was an officer of charioteers (hence the chariot in his tomb), was a tall man with strong features and a prominent hooked nose. Elliot Smith, the mummy expert of the period, examined both bodies and described the skull of Yuya as unusual. Smith thought he might have been a Semite—meaning that he came from Syria-Palestine, or points north. Thuya, the lady, was, in Smith’s words, a typical Egyptian of her time and place.
There is no indication that Yuya was an immigrant to Egypt, except for the fact that his name is not always spelled the same way. That is sometimes a sign that the Egyptians couldn’t decide on the proper rendering of a foreign-sounding name. I find this inconclusive evidence, one way or the other. If Yuya did move to Egypt from some other country, he must have arrived when he was fairly young; his career and titles seem to be consistent with those of any other Egyptian official. Nor would I insist on Smith’s expertise. He was an excellent scholar in many ways, but he too had his favorite theories, and there is nothing more destructive of objective scholarship than a pet theory.
Yuya looks like an Egyptian to me. So does his wife. And so, therefore, must their daughter have been. However, as I am about to inform you, there was no such thing as a “typical Egyptian.”
THE PEOPLE IN ACTUALITY
On the average they were shorter than we are; the women were about five feet tall, the men perhaps five feet five inches. Again, as always, we must note variations. Amenhotep II was several inches taller, but then he was a pharaoh, who got plenty to eat and had the best medical care available. (By our terms it wasn’t much, but it was better than the peasants got.) Their skin color ranged from pale to dark to darker. Unless it has turned white with age, the hair of mummies is usually black or brown; it may be straight or it may wave. The features are regular, with narrow noses, although some mummies (including Yuya’s) exhibit what I like to call the Thutmosid nose. It was like George Washington’s.
At one time some anthropologists thought they could distinguish two main physical strains in Egypt. Predynastic Egyptians, we were told, were not the same people as the “Giza” men of the Third and Fourth Dynasties. The earliest Egyptians were dainty little people with small delicate faces; the men must have been slender, since the skeletons of males and females are indistinguishable, with none of the heavier bone formation which male skeletons usually exhibit. The only exceptions, among predynastic skeletons, are the people of Tasa, one of the very early predynastic cultures. They had square heads, coarser bones, more robust skeletons. (That word is not a particularly happy one to use in describing a skeleton, but it’s the one the excavator used, and it does give you an idea.) The later people of Giza resemble the Tasian type. Dr. Douglas Derry, who was in his time one of the leading medical authorities on ancient Egypt, claimed that they also resembled the ruling class of the Twenty-Second Dynasty, which came from Libya.
You see the point, I’m sure. The great efflorescence of Egyptian culture that came to its head in the Fourth Dynasty was brought in by a group of people who differed from the little predynastic folk. This notion has now been pretty well abandoned, along with the assumption that every major cultural change had to be brought into the country by a new “race.”
Egyptologists don’t like to talk about race—not because it’s a touchy subject (though it is) but because it didn’t matter to the ancient Egyptians and because the whole subject is so burdened with conflicting definitions and irrational preconceptions. Eurocentrism—the notion that only the Indo-European peoples are capable of producing advanced civilization—pervaded nineteenth-century scholarship. Europe an (including English and American) historians focused on the Greeks as the cultural ancestors of the only civilization that mattered—theirs—and resisted any suggestion that the monumental accomplishments of Egyptian culture could be attributed to “nonwhites.” A reaction to this absurdity is understandable, and long overdue. But both action and reaction are irrelevant to an understanding of what the ancient Egyptians thought about the subject.
The concept of race would have been totally alien to them. Of course the Egyptians discriminated; doesn’t everybody? Like most ancient (and many modern) peoples, they divided the world into two groups: us and them, “people” and “barbarians.” When the texts refer to Cush, the land of Nubia to the south of Egypt, it is always as “wretched Cush.” “Don’t worry about the Asiatics,” a Thirteenth Dynasty prince advised his son. “They are only Asiatics.” But it is evident, from reliefs, inscriptions, and actual mummies, that they did not discriminate on the basis of color. The skin color that painters usually used for men is a reddish brown. Women were depicted as lighter in complexion, perhaps because they didn’t spend so much time out of doors. Some individuals are shown with black skins. I cannot recall a single example of the words “black,” “brown,” or “white” being used in an Egyptian text to describe a person. The “Black Land,” Kemet, referred to the rich fertile soil, not the people who farmed it.
Neither color nor “previous condition of servitude” prevented an individual from becoming “one of us.” Slaves sometimes married into the family or were adopted. Some persons of foreign origin attained high rank, including that of vizier, and one of Thutmose III’s “sole companions” was Nubian or Cushite. He was awarded the high honor of a burial in the Valley of the Kings, and his well-preserved mummy is that of a young man with Nubian characteristics. In his funerary scroll, he is shown with dark brown skin instead of the conventional reddish brown.
Foreigners became Egyptians when they learned the language and adopted the customs of the country. When, around 730 B.C., the Nubian kings invaded Egypt and started a new dynasty, they claimed to be restoring “maat,” the proper order, and considered themselves to be the legitimate inheritors of Egyptian kingship.
And they were. People from the south had been migrating into Egypt and intermarrying with the Egyptians who already lived there for countless generations. Most populations, ancient and modern, are mixed. I was delighted by a recent article describing a small skeleton as showing a combination of Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal characteristics. If it’s true, it means that the “superior” Cro-Magnons didn’t exterminate the Neanderthals, but interbred with them, and that even back in Paleolithic times the mingling of races was well under way. No group remains “pure” for long unless it is completely isolated, and if it gets too “pure” it will commit racial suicide through inbreeding. Egyptian civilization was produced by a mixture of peoples and cultures and racial strains. In the south the Egyptians intermingled with the people of Africa; in the north they did the same with the “Asiatics” or anybody else who happened to wander into the Delta.
The Egyptian language is a mixture too. Egyptian isn’t Hamitic (African) or Semitic; it has both elements. It is also impossible to describe cultural traits in simplistic terms. There is no single “African culture.” The long rich history of that huge continent, the enormous diversity of ethnic and societal groups, cannot be reduced to a single adjective. Egyptian civilization was not Mediterranean or African, Semitic or Hamitic, black or white, but all of them. It was, in short, Egyptian.