The Twelfth Transforming (33 page)

“My god, my lord,” he said quietly, “you have the worship of an empire, the love of Ra himself, and surely the love of such unworthy mortals as myself and your mother.”

Akhenaten brushed the tears from his cheeks, biting his lip. “I love you also. I love my empress, but she is becoming sharp-tongued. Uncle, will you accept the honor of being my Fanbearer on the Right Hand?”

Ay stared at him, quickly assimilating his nephew’s words. The highest position in the land was being offered to him, not forced on him. The laughter of relief rose to his mouth, and he swallowed, kneeling on the hard-packed dirt of the parade ground and kissing Pharaoh’s dusty feet. “I do not deserve this,” he said, knowing that he spoke the truth, “yet I will serve you faithfully, O Spirit of the Aten.”

“Good. I shall let Ranefer take over as Master of the King’s Horse. You will come with me to my holy city?”

“Did you doubt it?”

“Yes. Nefertiti said you would stay here with Tiye and conspire against me.”

I must have a few harsh words with Nefertiti
, Ay thought.
Will she never learn discretion?
“I can only deny this and try to prove to you with my deeds that the queen is wrong.”

Akhenaten touched him gently with one foot, and Ay rose. “I do not think I believe it anyway, Uncle,” Pharaoh said, sniffing and straightening. “Carry my fan and show all the whisperers that they are wrong to doubt your faithfulness.”

I am not yet sure myself that they are wrong
, Ay thought, his gaze absently on his pharaoh’s lumpish thighs as he paced toward the litters.
But you need me, Akhenaten
.

He was still not sure when he sought audience with his sister the following day. Tiye dismissed the Scribe of Assemblage as Ay prostrated himself and watched the man’s bare feet pad past his face. Tiye’s own leather sandals with the gold-roped stays came close. Ay raised himself on his elbows, kissed her feet, and rose.

“The Scribe of Assemblage tells me that there are now four thousand troops on the building site,” she said crossly. “What is Akhenaten thinking of? One thousand would be enough to keep order among the fellahin. Sebek-hotep must wake sweating in the night when he sees the rate at which gold is being drained from the Treasury. And you, Fanbearer on the Right Hand, you must be paid for your new position.”

Ay watched the wrinkled, large-veined hands, heavy with jewels, swiftly roll up the scroll and toss it onto the pile on the scribe’s desk. She was wearing a diaphanous pale-blue gown whose pleats floated out from under her brown, sagging breasts. Her wrinkled nipples were painted blue and glimmered with gold dust. The blue cloak she had cast onto the stool behind her was bordered with small hollow globules of gold, each containing a pellet that would tinkle as she walked. Her own red-brown hair frothed away from her high forehead, and a girlish coronet of blue enamel forget-me-nots encircled her brow. Hanging from it were spears of green enamel leaves that brushed against cheeks beginning to be pendulous with age. The clear blue eyes were set in a nest of fine wrinkles and pouches of weariness. For the first time, Ay thought that she had dressed without taste, the fresh youthfulness of her attire emphasizing, not hiding, her advancing years. Her voice, too, had the shrill querulousness of an impatient old nurse. With a sense of shock he saw in Tiye their mother, Tuyu, Handmaid and Royal Ornament, where before he had only seen in her the strength and arrogance of their father.

“As long as tribute and foreign bribes pour into the Treasury, it is bottomless,” he objected mildly. “It appears that Pharaoh believes he can keep the demons away from his city with the spears and scimitars of living men. It does not matter, Empress.”

“It does matter!” Tiye snapped back. “There is trouble brewing in northern Syria. Our vassals are making overtures to a nation that might become an enemy. Any fool but Pharaoh can see it. Egypt may need every soldier she has.”

“Pharaoh is aware of it.”

“Oh, yes.” Her tone was sarcastic. “He reads the dispatches. For him, every word glows with truth. He calls those brigands Aziru and Suppiluliumas his brothers.”

“Why do you take it all to heart? Aziru and Suppiluliumas are arguing as much as agreeing with each other. If they ultimately fight one another, it is good for us. If they make war together on us, we will defeat them. Perhaps a little war will bring Akhenaten to his senses.”

“You are so calm, Ay.” She smiled coldly. “So clever. When I listen to you, I begin to believe that my judgment has deserted me. But I tell you that the jackals smell a weakness in my son, and their appetites are whetted.”

“Then let them try to feed. Egypt is more than powerful enough to ram dry bones down their throats. You used to be able to laugh, Empress, to leave matters of state behind you when you left the ministers’ offices. What is wrong?”

The soft shoulders slumped. “I do not know. You, perhaps. Fanbearer—quite an honor. I am too tired to spy on you, outthink you, brood upon my every suspicion that you are edging me toward my death. I could join my voice to Nefertiti’s and whisper to Pharaoh that you curry his favor only to hold your place as first noble of the kingdom, but I do not want to hurt him, even if it is the truth.”

“There is nothing wrong with following a policy of personal gain in such circumstances, as you would be the first to admit if you were in my position,” Ay pointed out. There was a pause. Tiye’s head was down, her eyes and fingers on the scrolls the Scribe of Assemblage had left. Then Ay said quietly, “You miss him in your bed, don’t you?”

The proud chin rose, but Tiye’s smile was grimly self-deprecatory. “Yes, I do. But it is Osiris Amunhotep Glorified whom I miss most of all.”

“Then find someone to replace him. Your nights need not be cold.”

“It is not that. It is…” She cast about for words, then shrugged. “It is not important. But I have decided finally that when Akhenaten moves the court, I will stay here.”

He nodded. “You realize, then, that you must keep Smenkhara and Beketaten with you.”

Their eyes met. “Of course,” Tiye answered dryly.

In the pause that followed, her gaze dropped to the cluttered desk, and she began to move the scrolls about pensively. After a while Ay said, “Can it be that the empress of Egypt has succumbed to self-pity?” He expected a tart reply, but she raised her head and smiled at him humorlessly.

“It could. The space between us has already grown, Fanbearer. I freely admit that if our positions were reversed, I would behave no differently than you have, but I mourn the loss of your presence already. Allow me the luxury of a purely human weakness.”

She came out from behind the desk, holding her arms toward him, and wordlessly they embraced. Ay knew that in the generosity of her spirit, he was forgiven.

Three months later, in the middle of the harvest, word came to Malkatta that Suppiluliumas’ maneuvers had become a full-scale military campaign, and that the Khatti had indeed waged battle against Aziru in northern Syria. Tiye stood in the Office of Foreign Correspondence surrounded by scribes. Tutu, Scribe of Foreign Correspondence, hovered anxiously in the background, and her son stood pale and sullen before her, his monkeys gibbering around him.

“But we have a peace treaty with Suppiluliumas,” Akhenaten protested, looking uncertainly to the embarrassed Tutu. “Tutu showed it to me. How can we march against him?”

“Majesty, I am not suggesting that we make war on the Khatti,” Tiye said carefully, trying to remain calmly persuasive. “But while they bicker with Mitanni as well as the Amurru, we must visit the border states that are becoming unstable. Our native viceroys there are beginning to wonder at Egypt’s inaction in the face of so much unrest and are beginning to question the advantages of continued allegiance to us. Ribbadi of Gebel in particular is frantic for word from you, and the wandering Apiru tribes are once more raiding and looting the border towns. My first husband faced a situation like this and acted promptly.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” Akhenaten asked plaintively. “I’m sick of listening to Ribbadi’s letters, begging for assistance. He writes all the time. I told Tutu to send him a scroll forbidding him to bother me so often. I have written to all the viceroys reminding them of their earlier blessings at Egypt’s hand.”

“It is no longer enough,” Tiye said gently. “Call Aziru to Egypt to explain why he tried to treaty with the Khatti in the first place. Gather your Nubian Shock Troops, your archers and charioteers, and ride north. To crush the desert tribes who harry the border would be a neutral diplomatic move, favoring no one and yet reasserting Egypt’s power. It is also advisable to visit your vassals, replace the viceroys that can no longer be trusted, perhaps execute a few whose loyalties have shifted. Shower the rest with gold in person, Horus. Then choose to go hunting in the area with all your might displayed. Letters cannot replace a sight of Pharaoh in all his might.”

“But what of all the treaties?” He was clearly distressed, his brow furrowed under the golden cobra, his tongue darting over his hennaed lips. One of his monkeys ran up the arm of his chair and leaped onto his shoulder. Gratefully he began to fondle it. “You speak of killing, Mother. How can I kill men whose letters are friendly, who assure me of their trust, who call me the greatest king in all the world? I will think about sending to May and asking him to quell the bandits. The Apiru never write to me.”

“Well, that is a start. Tutu is here. Will you dictate right now?”

“No, not now. I promised the children that I would play with them in the nursery.”

Tiye was about to beg, then thought better of it. “Would you like me to write the letter for you?”

“All right.” His face brightened, and kissing the monkey’s ear, he set it down and rose. Instantly the people in the room began to prostrate themselves. “But it is to be nothing more than a discipline against the Apiru. I will think about the viceroys later.” He walked out, the room emptying after him.

If I cannot persuade him of the seriousness of the situation, perhaps Nefertiti can
, Tiye thought.
He must be made to understand
. She grasped Nefertiti’s braceleted arm. “Majesty,” she said in a low voice, “you do not like me, but surely you love Egypt. Do your best to keep these affairs before his eyes.”

“I think he is right, Empress,” Nefertiti hissed back. “The longer the delays, the more likely it is that our enemies will make war on each other and become weaker because of it.”

“You are wrong.” Tiye’s nails bit into the young woman’s flesh. “Suppiluliumas still cannot quite believe that the greatest power in the world chooses to remain impotent. He will work subtly, making alliances where he sees the potential for future gains.”

Nefertiti smiled tightly at her aunt. “This is all you have left, dear empress, the dubious ability to interpret foreign affairs in order to try to regain some influence over the god. It will not work. Your star is falling.” She pursed her lips and sucked soothingly at the two monkeys clinging to her gown. “I must go. Take your fingers from my arm, Majesty. Already you have bruised me, and I will need a massage to remove the marks.”

“You need a good whipping, Nefertiti. Your father was always too lenient with you.” Tiye stepped back disgustedly, and Nefertiti glided out. Tutu stood waiting, eyes downcast. “And you, you venal toe-licker,” Tiye spat at him, “if it was in my power, I would have you replaced. A Scribe of Foreign Correspondence is supposed to think for himself and offer bold advice, but all you do is parrot my niece’s words.” Frustration made her want to cry. Tutu was flinching, but his lower lip stuck out mutinously, and Tiye knew he realized that he had nothing to fear from her. She was tempted to push the scrolls to the floor and walk away from the office, the sly minister, the responsibility that had become such a desperate burden. There would be fresh dusty grapes from her vineyards at Djarukha set out beside her couch, and beer from this year’s barley, dark and cool. “I want a copy of this for my own scribes,” she said, “and you had better have it translated into Akkadian and sent to Urusalim and Gebel. It will do those cities good to know that Egypt is at least chasing the desert bowmen. ‘To the commander of the fortress troops of His Majesty, May, greetings. It has been brought to our wise attention that…’” Tutu wrote quickly and as silently as he could, and when Tiye had finished, she left without another glance at him.

Outside in the passage Huya was waiting patiently. “Have my litter and canopy brought,” Tiye ordered. “I want to go to the parade ground today and watch the Division of Splendor of the Aten go through their paces.” Huya looked into her face and did not demur. Tiye was carried out onto the blinding sand of the parade ground, where the captains shouted their orders and the soldiers wheeled and marched, scimitars flashing in the sun, their bare feet churning white dust. The sight did not cheer her. The army of Egypt was like a chariot without an axle, beautiful but useless. She began to long passionately for the day when Pharaoh and his minions would sail away and not come back, and Malkatta with its quiet gardens and echoing corridors would belong to her and her memories, alone.

15

I
n the following year Tiye persuaded Pharaoh to dispatch another punitive expedition north, grimly aware that Egypt was merely holding up a splayed hand against the fury of a khamsin. Ribbadi’s letters, reproachful, puzzled, loving, and finally panic-stricken, cut her to the quick, but she could do nothing. Abimilki of Tyre begged for troops. Other petty kings and viceroys begged for understanding, and Tiye knew that their letters required the patience and cunning of a man with the seasoned wisdom of Osiris Amunhotep to decipher. The passive simplicity of her son was no match for the wily protestations of men who had already secretly allied themselves with the greatest force ever pitted against the stability of the Egyptian empire, but whose words of wounded loyalty brought a pleased flush to Akhenaten’s long face. Aziru, taking advantage of the confusing situation and carefully avoiding antagonizing Suppiluliumas, began murdering Egyptian officials in Syria and blaming his old enemies. He responded to Akhenaten’s request for his presence at Malkatta, apologizing that since he was busy defending Syrian cities against the Khatti, he could not appear for at least a year. Tiye, furious, demanded that a division march into Amurru territory and execute Aziru, but Akhenaten, after vacillating between the evidence of Akkadian cipher pressed into clay that he could hold in his hands and the less physical and more uncomfortable interpretation his mother gave him, decided to believe Aziru. He granted him a year’s grace. Ribbadi fled from his city of Byblos, and the Khatti flowed slowly after him. Megiddo, Lachish, Askalon, and Gezer sent letter after letter to Malkatta, screaming for money, troops and food, and while Akhenaten agonized over the truth, the vassal cities fell to marauding Apiru, now in the pay of Suppiluliumas. Many of the Canaanite vassals were forced to sue for peace to the Khatti, trading Egypt’s over lordship in return for their lives.