The Twelfth Transforming (47 page)

“This is a pleasure, Princess,” Tiye said, patting the cushions while Smenkhara kissed her cheek cheerily and squatted beside her. Meritaten sank delicately, arranging her linens with small, pretty gestures. “I trust you are well? Huya tells me there is much fever in the nurseries, and the physicians are busy. But of course you have apartments of your own now.”

“I let no one from the nurseries in,” Meritaten said easily, smiling across at Smenkhara. “It was as well that you ordered Prince Tutankhaten removed. Many children have died.” She pushed shoulder-length hair away from her jaw. “The demons of summer seem to have clustered in the children’s quarters. You would think that Pharaoh’s prophet could chant them away, seeing as he is also Controller of Demons and must constantly deal with the evil ones who wish to destroy my father and the worship of the Aten throughout the world.”

“Then I am surprised Meryra is not in attendance at your sister’s confinement.”

“But that is a matter of the body only,” Meritaten answered quickly. “My father has promised that Meketaten has the full protection of the Aten’s beneficence.”

Tiye turned to her son. “How are you enjoying your time with Horemheb? Do you like things military?”

He responded to her light teasing with an open grin. Since coming to Akhetaten, he had changed. The reunion with Meritaten had held at bay the capricious sullenness that had so annoyed his mother, and his face had lost its heavy, spoiled expression.

“I like the commander,” he said, “but there is not much merit in straining to draw the bow or cursing as I flail around with the heavy scimitar. The chariots amuse me. I may one day be as capable behind the reins as my divine brother is.” He reached for Meritaten’s hand. “But, Mother, I did not come to see you to pass the time of day. I know you are preoccupied with Meketaten. Everyone is.”

Except the two of you
, Tiye thought.
There is an invisible union between you that shelters you from any other concern
. Smenkhara’s shaven head was bare but for the blue and white ribbons bound around his forehead, and he wore a thin white kilt around his loins.
Is it my imagination or a trick of the failing light that gives him the suspicion of a swell over his belt?
she wondered and then dismissed the fancy.

“Speak, then,” she urged kindly. They exchanged glances.

“We want to be betrothed,” he said. “You have told me often enough that since the queen has no sons, I will sooner or later be hailed as the Horus-in-the-Nest. Meritaten is fully royal, as I am. There can be no objections to a marriage. I am fourteen. In two years I will be legally a man, and I am already so in my body. Meritaten is old enough to bear children.”

Tiye had not expected his request to be made so soon, though she had known it would come eventually. “Have you approached Pharaoh?” she asked.

“Not yet. I do not think the queen will like the idea because she hates you so, and she will try to convince Pharaoh that the match is not suitable. Therefore we ask you to press our request upon the god.”

“But I am…” Tiye stopped. She had been going to say that she was convinced Pharaoh had other plans for Meritaten, that for years she had believed the princess would be married to her father as Sitamun had been married to Osiris Amunhotep. But it had been Meketaten who had been forced into the royal bed. Perhaps Akhenaten would accept a petition from her on behalf of these two. She smiled at them warmly. “I can make no promises, but I will try.”

“Thank you!” Meritaten’s small teeth gleamed at her in the gathering darkness. “I must go now and pray for my sister. Are you coming, Smenkhara? May we be dismissed, Majesty?”

“Go.” They scrambled to their feet and were soon lost in the darkness, their arms around each other. Tiye felt strangely comforted at seeing such uncomplicated, happy affection in this place.

She slept briefly, waking to receive a message from Pharaoh’s apartments that there were no new developments.
A first birth is always a long affair
, she told herself, lying with eyes open in the suffocating darkness of her room.
Longer still for a body as immature as Meketaten’s
. She slept again and woke to find that dawn had passed and the sun was already two hours into the sky. Again there was no news, and again she spent a restless, preoccupied day, filling the time with unimportant details. But at sunset a herald bowed before her and told her that though Meketaten’s pains were following one another with speed, the baby had moved little, and the princess was weaker. Tiye sent for Huya.

“Find a statue of Ta-Urt,” she ordered. “There must be one stored somewhere among my household goods. Then get me any priest willing to pray to any god other than the Aten. I don’t care whom he serves so long as he knows the prayers for women in labor.”

“It will take some time, Majesty. I will have to send into the city.”

“Well, send then. And hurry up.”

It was fully night before he returned, bringing a small votive statue of the swollen hippopotamus goddess and a furtive priest who set up the incense cups and began his prayers with one respectful eye on Tiye, who stood beside him as he performed the brief ritual. When the man had finished, Tiye gave him gold and sent him away with friendly words and ordered Ta-Urt returned to whatever chest Huya had found her in. Then she made her way into the palace.

The crowds of servants and lesser ministers clustered around the door fell back silently as she swept past them, but those within did not acknowledge her presence. Tadukhipa sat slumped on the floor, the princess’s fingers twined in her own, dozing. Pharaoh held a sleeping monkey on his lap. His head was bowed. Nefertiti was wringing out a cloth and laying it on Meketaten’s forehead while the girl moaned. The atmosphere was unbearable, a mixture of the stench of incense ash, human sweat, and agony. Meketaten began to writhe, uttering muffled cries, and Tiye realized with a shock that the princess was too weak to scream aloud. She left them.

She was summoned again just before dawn and knew even before the solemn herald had finished bowing to her that Meketaten was dead. Tight-lipped with rage, she strode into the palace. Already the word was passing among the servants, and inquisitive eyes followed her along every passage. Steeling herself, she crossed the threshold.

Tadukhipa had gone. Pharaoh stood with his back to the couch, arms folded. Nefertiti was sobbing openly, kneeling by the couch. The midwife was carefully lifting a covered bundle from the bloodied sheets, and quickly Tiye averted her gaze. The nobles who had been forced to be continually present had all slipped away but for Ay and Horemheb, who sat on the floor in a far corner. The midwife bent before Tiye and departed, and Tiye moved quietly to the couch and looked down. No one had closed the bewildered eyes, or yet washed the gray, foam-flecked face. Meketaten had bitten through her bottom lip, and blood crusted on her chin and smeared the little teeth. She lay with thin arms loosely outstretched, the sheet barely covering the pitifully flat breasts, her shoulders still hunched against torment. Tiye reached down and gently pushed the lids over the staring eyes. She must have groaned aloud, for Akhenaten turned and saw her. Tears slipped down his cheeks.

“It was a boy,” he whispered, forming the words so slowly and with so much difficulty that he seemed drunk. His eyes turned to Nefertiti, now wailing with arms upraised. “You brought sorrow and anger to the god,” he managed, “and he has punished me. You broke the magic with the sculptor. You weakened the power of the god. You are to blame!” The last words were shrieked, and Tiye sensed rather than saw Horemheb rise to his feet. “My little daughter. Ah, Meketaten!” Parennefer hurried to his side, and Horemheb came forward, soothing words already on his tongue. They led Pharaoh away.

Gathering her resolve, Tiye went to Nefertiti. “You need rest, Majesty,” she said, taking the stiff arms and lowering them firmly. “Sleep now. This outburst is not grief, but madness. Ay, take her to her apartments.” She turned to the servants huddled by the door. “Is there a House of the Dead in the city? Bring sem-priests, but first have the princess washed and tidied.” She shouted at them until they rallied and ran to obey. As she left the room, the new sun struck the walls like a burning fist.

The harem women were already wailing, and Tiye could hear their mindless ululations as she crossed the royal garden and went through the gate in the wall. They had mourned often of late, as one small body after another was carried from the nurseries, but this outcry was frightening in its intensity. Tiye hurried into her chambers in order to shut out the sound, but even in the sanctuary of her bedroom she could hear it. Sharply she ordered wine, though the morning had scarcely begun, and stayed on her couch until she summoned Huya in the late afternoon.

“Pharaoh resisted every effort to keep him on his couch,” he said in answer to her question. “He lies before the altar in the temple with the sun beating down on him. His ministers are afraid for his health. Word of the death has gone into the city, and the shops and stalls are closed. The queen is asleep. I took the liberty of taking the news to Prince Smenkhara myself, Majesty. Princess Meritaten was with him.”

“Has the body been decently removed?”

“It has.”

“Meketaten,” she muttered to herself once he had gone. “Such folly, such wickedness. How long will it be before the gods run out of patience with my son and truly punish him?”

The customary seventy days of mourning were decreed for the princess and her stillborn son. The funeral seemed a quiet, drab affair to Tiye, sitting on her litter under the protecting canopy and watching Pharaoh offer prayers to his god for the survival of Meketaten’s ka. Her attention was diverted from the rites by the strained, shocked faces of the courtiers. It was not grief for the princess that had stirred them, Tiye decided, but a kind of fear. Many of them had almost unconsciously edged toward the place where Smenkhara and Meritaten stood, as though the young prince offered a protection they suddenly craved.
Perhaps the long dream that has held them in thrall is beginning to fade
, Tiye thought.
The Aten has failed them. From now on their faith will be tinged with doubt
. But such doubt obviously did not afflict Pharaoh. He wept and prayed earnestly, his light voice often drowned by Nefertiti’s uncontrolled sobbing. There was none of the dignity of proper ritual, and Tiye was relieved to escape back to her house.

Once there, she instructed Huya. “Set up an Amun shrine in Prince Smenkhara’s quarters. The worship of gods other than the Aten has not been expressly forbidden. Do it quite openly and make certain that the people of Thebes, particularly Maya and the priests, know about it. I also think it is time for Smenkhara to begin work on his tomb. He can have his engineers design here if he wishes, but it is imperative he dig in the Valley in West-of-Thebes with as much dust and noise as possible. See to it.”

She wanted to approach Akhenaten immediately to secure Smenkhara and Meritaten’s betrothal, but Ay warned her that Pharaoh’s temper was precarious. He was closeted in his apartments, fasting and praying, seeing no one. Grudgingly she settled herself to wait, but one week went by and then another, and Pharaoh’s grief showed no signs of abating.

A month after the funeral one of Ay’s officers requested words with Tiye as she was about to be rowed across the river to visit Tey. He was obviously agitated and was trailed by several anxious Followers of His Majesty. “Divine Empress, your brother begs you to come at once to Pharaoh’s apartments,” the man said. “You are needed. Pharaoh is distressed.”

Tiye nodded, looking regretfully at her little craft bobbing invitingly on the sparkling blue water. “Captain, the sailors can stand down. Huya, you had better find an escort of Horemheb’s soldiers for me immediately.” Within the hour she was seeking admittance to the private wing of the palace, and long before she passed through the doors of her son’s reception room, she could hear him shouting, his voice shrill and hysterical. His herald barred her way politely. “Forgive me, Majesty, but arms are not permitted in Pharaoh’s presence. Please tell your soldiers to wait out here with me.”

She ignored him, and signaling to her bodyguards, she pushed past and entered. There was a flurry of indignation behind her, and a group of Followers pressed on the heels of the men Horemheb had provided her, scimitars drawn. She would have turned to settle the dispute, but at the sight of her Nefertiti sprang forward, pointing finger rigid, her face white and her eyes blazing. She had been weeping. Kohl smudged her cheeks and had been smeared across one temple with an unconscious hand. “It is her fault!” she cried out, mouth quivering, her beautiful face a grimace of distress. “She is responsible for the lies! You did not doubt my love until she came! Ask her the truth and see if she has the courage to deny it!”

Swiftly Tiye appraised the situation. Her son stood rocking on his heels, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as though in pain, breathing rapidly and noisily. Horemheb was beside him, grim and for once powerless. Around them Pharaoh’s retinue shuffled, glancing at one another in fear and embarrassment and trying to appear inconspicuous. Ay watched from the shadows at the far end of the room. Nefertiti paced alone, her women huddled together out of her way.

“How can you speak of truth?” Akhenaten quavered. “You have deceived me, you have made me a joke before my people. I trusted you. I poured out my love for you, and all the time you were making light of my devotion.” He was fighting for control of his voice, his words rendered almost unintelligible by emotion. Nefertiti thrust her face into Tiye’s.

“Tell him!” she hissed. “If you love him, how can you stand to watch him in this agony? You and Huya, that sly royal tool, dripping your poison into willing ears. What can you gain by this, except the destruction of my husband?”

Tiye looked past the fierce eyes to where Akhenaten was watching her, leaning tensely toward her, his gaze nakedly begging her for reassurance. She turned to meet Ay’s glance. “Stand away, Majesty,” she said coldly. “The royal cobra on your brow is no match for an empress’s disk. Your own lust has brought you to this moment. If I were Pharaoh, I would have you immediately disciplined.”