The Twelfth Transforming (59 page)

“Of course not, Majesty,” Horemheb replied before he realized that Akhenaten was not addressing him and indeed, had not seen him at all.

But before long Akhenaten had become too weak to walk. He lay propped up on the couch, his hands folded on the sheet, scarcely moving. He refused food, though he sometimes drank water, continuing quite clearly the dialogue that had by now been proceeding for many days. Ay was forcibly reminded of the early days of the Teaching, when the prince would gather the young men of the court around him and speak with an authority he exhibited at no other time. But he was visibly sinking, his breathing increasingly shallow, his body thinning, and his face acquiring the transparency of impending death.

Toward the end of a long day when he had lain quietly, alternately sleeping and waking only to whisper unintelligibly to himself, Akhenaten became restless and began to cry, calling agitatedly for his mother. Ay and Horemheb exchanged glances.

“Should we bring Meritaten, or send for Nefertiti?” Horemheb whispered. “Nefertiti has refused to come, but we might try again.”

Ay shook his head. “Find Tadukhipa,” he decided. “She has always been devoted to him. Let Meritaten and Ankhesenpaaten in if they wish.”

The sound of a door closing made him turn his head. Smenkhara had come through the entrance to his apartment and was leaning against the wall just inside, arms folded, eyes on the figure on the couch. Horemheb went out and spoke to the herald. While they waited, they watched Meryra move quietly around the couch, describing slow circles with the incense holder as he murmured. Akhenaten’s eyes did not follow him.

Tadukhipa had never lost her air of shy hesitancy. In spite of the fact that she was a Royal Wife and a princess in her own right, she answered the men’s obeisances with little bows before moving to the couch and perching on the stool that had been set for her. Taking one of Pharaoh’s hands, she raised it and kissed the fingers lovingly. Akhenaten’s head rolled toward her on the pillow, and she wiped the tears away.

“Your hands are so warm, Mother,” he whispered. “I asked Kheruef to light the braziers, but I am still cold. They were going to murder me. I know it now. No one cares about me but you.”

“I will always love you, my dear lord.”

“Will you? But words are blown away and vanish into the mists of time.” The whisper trailed away and he fought for breath. “It does not matter,” he went on after a while, his eyes opening and closing drowsily. “You are here, and I can feel safe. Do you remember the night at Memphis when the moon was full and the air was warm and we lay in the hunting skiff pretending to count the stars? No, you would not remember, but I do.”

“Hush, Akhenaten,” Tadukhipa soothed. “Do not talk. You must save your strength.”

He lapsed into silence, breathing lightly and erratically, and tears of fatigue and sadness began to flow again. Then, suddenly, he wrenched his hand from her grip and struggled up.

“I have tried to do that which is good in the sight of the god!” he called. “I have tried so hard!” Frightened, Tadukhipa rose and eased him onto the pillows. For a moment he resisted and then sank back. His eyes opened wide, all at once fully aware, and stared at her with surprise. “Little Kia!” he said. “Did I send for you? Forgive me, I cannot talk to you now, I am too tired. I think I will sleep.”

His eyes dropped shut. Three times the frail, sunken chest rose and fell and then was quietly still. Tadukhipa turned, and Horemheb came running to the couch. Bending over the king, he listened for a heartbeat but soon straightened. “Horus is dead,” he said. “Let his daughters in if they wish to come now.” He took his place by Ay as Meritaten and Ankhesenpaaten burst into tears and fled past them, falling by the quiet corpse.

Smenkhara watched impassively, his arms still folded. He did not move even when those in the room turned from the misshapen body to fall at his feet and press their lips against them. The dutiful wails of the women began to float through the windows as the word spread. “Take off his seal ring and give it to me,” Smenkhara ordered curtly. Ay obeyed, and Smenkhara rolled it speculatively about on his palm before sliding it onto his finger. “I am going back to my own quarters until these are ready,” he went on conversationally. “Clean them well, Panhesy. Meritaten, come here.” She got up and joined him. Roughly he snatched up her linen and wiped her face. “Those are the last tears you will shed for your father,” he said. “Do you understand? I am hungry. We will eat in the garden.” Mutely she followed him through the line of bent heads and outstretched arms. Ay met Horemheb’s glance and raised his eyebrows. The new order had begun.

BOOK THREE

24

N
efertiti paced the gloomy length of her bedchamber, arms folded over the ribbons that held the white cloak under her full breasts, head down. It was full night. One small lamp burned on the table by the couch, casting a pool of yellow light that did little to dispel the shadows around it. The even breathing of her sleeping women, lost in deep unconsciousness at the far end of the room on their pallets, punctuated the warm, still air. Occasionally she would stop, gazing through the dimness at the giant silver reliefs that paraded around the walls, likenesses of herself in kilt and sun crown, decked with ankhs and sphinxes, striding arrogantly over an Egypt bent in homage. Sometimes her absent steps took her to the window, and looking out, she saw her terraces, once again lush with life but now drained of color under a waning moon, tumbling down to the glinting, full river. Her eyes wandered the peaceful scene but hardly saw it. Her fingers uncurled and gently ran over the stone sill without feeling the smooth, breeze-cooled ashlar.

He was dead, he was dead. She said his name in a whisper, not with the grief of love lost but in a kind of angry puzzlement. He had been her route to the power she had exercised in Akhetaten, the father of her children, the strange man who had shared her bed, who had prompted in her both the exasperated affection of a mother for a wayward child and the contempt of a woman for a man who had lacked the rough straightforwardness of the phantom ruler who had inhabited her childhood dreams. In spite of her exalted position she had not gained the empress’s crown, for which she had risked the murder of her cousin Sitamun. In spite of those daydreams of girlhood she had not found love. Her life had been a long struggle against the compromises she had been forced to accept. Her extraordinary beauty had been a blunted weapon. As long as Akhenaten had lived, there was a chance that this exile, partly self-imposed through pride and fear of yet another humiliation, might end in complete justification, but now he had gone to whatever god would accept him, and she was permanently relegated to the honorable but impotent position of dowager queen. Smenkhara, another cousin, would rule. True, his wife was her daughter, but between Nefertiti and any influence she might have with the royal couple stood the Fanbearer on the Right Hand and the Supreme Commander of All the Forces of His Majesty, two men whose slow rise to power had been carefully consolidated at every stage, and who would clearly not allow her to pursue any independent policies.

Then there was Tutankhaten. Nefertiti was acutely aware of his presence, blissfully asleep here in her own domain, an eight-year-old boy whose claim to the throne was as strong as Smenkhara’s.
I could marry him myself
, she thought as her feet carried her soundlessly over the cool tiles,
but I would need strong men behind me, men who could neutralize my father’s and Horemheb’s power. Ay is planning the abandonment of my city, while Horemheb’s arm reaches out for control through the army. If I married Tutankhaten, Father and Horemheb would do their best to make sure that I continued to wear only the queen’s crown and walked behind my little husband while they administered the country. But I am thirty-five years old. I have a right to rule. And Egypt is ripe for the picking. I want to pluck it. I want to return to the royal palace in the full panoply of empress and take at last what is mine. Tiye did it, and so can I. But how? I grow old here. One day follows the next like the monotonous dripping of water in the clock. Without the help of a strong man I can do nothing. Where is there such a man? No courtier will help me. Amun’s men are too weak and demoralized. Horemheb has the army
. She paused to place both hands over her burning eyes, a panic rising in her as she saw herself slowly forgotten, a silent, shadowy figure moving quietly through the years in a beautiful prison while outside the shape of history changed and changed again without her.
No!
she thought, leaning against the window.
I would rather kill myself. Tiye was clever. She saw the end, she had done it all, there was nothing more, and she seized the moment, but surely I have not yet reached the end of my life. Not at thirty-five! Shall I marry little Tutankhaten and take the gamble? I would lose. I have too many enemies who would ally themselves with Smenkhara. A strong man, a prince…

All at once a solution presented itself to her, and its daring made her scalp prickle. She flung away from the window, all weariness gone.
Oh, never!
she thought breathlessly.
I would be risking my very life if it were discovered. Besides, there is not enough time. The period of mourning for Akhenaten has begun, and there are only sixty-nine days left before his successor must perform the Opening of the Mouth
. But the idea grew, and she caught herself smiling into the darkness.
I will
, she thought excitedly.
It is worth a try. The alternative is widowhood and the trappings of power without its sting for the rest of my life. At one blow I can circumvent my father and Horemheb, disinherit Smenkhara, and keep Tutankhaten forever a prince. I am not too old to have children, sons… But time is so short
.

She ran to the doors and pulled them open. Her guard sprang to attention, and her herald rose from the stool where he had been dozing. “Bring my scribe at once,” she snapped, “and the captain of my household guards. Hurry!” She closed the door and went to a chair, weak with fear, and pouring water, she gulped it down. Summoning up her courage, she went out to her reception rooms, dismissing the guards at the doors. When her captain and scribe bowed before her, she was standing stiffly at the foot of her throne, her heart leaping wildly.

“Have you enough light?” she demanded. The scribe sank cross-legged before her and nodded, dipping his pen in the ink and waiting. “Then take this letter.” She was whispering, her throat constricted with excitement. “To His Majesty King Suppiluliumas, Lord of the Khatti. You know his titles; put them in. Then say, ‘My husband is dead, and I have no son. People say that your sons are fully grown. If you will send me one of your sons, he will become my husband, for I do not wish to take one of my subjects to make him into my husband.’ What is ‘Queen’ in Akkadian?”

“Dahamunzu.”

“Then sign it ‘Dahamunzu.’ What are you staring at?” Both men’s eyes were fixed on her in dumb astonishment. “I know exactly what I am doing. If Suppiluliumas does what I ask, the threat from the Khatti will be over. You may speak, Captain.”

“But, Majesty, they are our enemies! A Khatti on the Horus Throne?”

“Yes.” She was recovering her composure now that the feverish words had left her mouth. “Think! A marriage that will forever end the possibility of invasion. The foreign prince will have no real power in Egypt, for I will hold it.” Suddenly aware of her trembling limbs, she sank onto the throne. “I do not have to explain myself to you. I command simply that you do what you are told. Take the scroll to Boghaz-keuoi yourself, telling no one along the way what your mission is. But be careful at Memphis— Horemheb has many troops there watching the river traffic and patrolling the desert road into Syria. If you are questioned, tell them you are carrying orders to May from the Fledgling Smenkhara.”

“But, Majesty,” the man persisted, still livid with shock, “our army marches on the Khatti even now. I could find myself in the middle of a battle that Egypt might win!”

I do not want Egypt to win
, Nefertiti found herself thinking coldly.
Such a victory would make Horemheb the most dangerous man in the country
. “I do not think our forces have yet met the Khatti,” she replied. “And even if they have, and are winning, the negotiations I am opening will simply ensure our stability. Leave tonight. How long is the trip to Boghaz-keuoi?”

“At least three weeks, Majesty.”

Apprehension twisted in Nefertiti’s stomach.
No
, she thought.
I must not begin to count the days, not yet, or I shall go mad
. “Do your best to make it less. Take gold to bribe the Apiru in Sinai and to buy horses from them. Take an escort, but not so large that you are conspicuous. If you succeed in this, soldier, I will reward you with a fortune and a much higher commission in my service. You, scribe, your tongue will be cut out and your hands crushed if you breathe one word of tonight’s work. Do you understand?” He nodded, holding up the scroll, and she pressed her seal into the warm wax and thrust the document at the captain. “Commandeer what transport you need. You already have that authority.”

Before he had finished bowing, she had left the room, still trembling. Sliding beneath her sheets, she drew them to her chin and closed her eyes. Sleep did not come easily. She imagined the captain making his way to the wharf where her vessels were tethered, speaking to her overseer in the torch-lit darkness, entering one of her boats. Determinedly she cast about for other, more soothing thoughts. Events had been set in motion, and all she could do was wait.

Horemheb had also set certain events in motion, but unlike Nefertiti, he made no attempt to divert himself from their outcome. As the period of mourning for Pharaoh began, a time when traditionally only the most pressing official acts were performed and the tempo of court life slowed, he retired to his estate to ponder the ramifications of his order to mobilize the army and the probable course Smenkhara’s administration might take. He had already begun to receive dispatches from his officers as the army flowed slowly into southern Syria, and had passed them on to Ay, as he had promised. He longed to be in the field with the soldiers, knowing that they respected him not only because he was a capable commander but also because he was not above sharing the hardships of active duty with them: the bad food, rough sleeping conditions, and exhausting marches that were the lot of the serving soldier. Morale would be lower with his absence. The officers would be saying among themselves that the commander had stayed safely at Akhetaten because he had little faith in a successful outcome to the coming engagement with the Khatti, no matter what excuses he had given them.