At last a lookout shouted, and Tiye raised her eyes, slitting them against the glare. Aten Gleams, homing after its trip to Memphis, had turned into the canal and was beating carefully to the steps, sail furled, oars dipping and rising in a ponderous rhythm. Now that it had passed beyond the inquisitive eyes of the Theban populace, the silk curtains of the cabin had been looped back. The court musicians rolled their drums and began to tinkle and pluck. The boat jostled the steps, the imperial flags limp, its wet, sun-burnished golden sides reflecting yellow on the paving. Slaves rushed to run out the ramp, a stir was visible in the shadow of the cabin, and Tadukhipa emerged. As soon as she left the shelter of the cabin, the women with her raised a canopy over her head, a curious, stiff curved structure of white satin topped by the grinning head of some barbaric god. Amunhotep, wheezing with the effort, struggled to his feet, gathered up the symbols of his kingship, and waited.
Tiye studied the princess. She had a tiny, swarthy face with darting black eyes topped by a soft cap of gold cloth whose tassels swung to her neck. Little brocade slippers were on her feet, hardly visible beneath a heavy skirt of many garish colors fringed in gold, and a loose shawl of the same material hid all but her arms. Six other boats had come to a halt, disgorging a chattering flock of gaudy women, the princess’s retinue.
Tadukhipa minced forward, knelt to kiss her husband’s feet, hesitated, gave a timid yet interested glance at Tiye, and then kissed her feet also. Despite her small swaying canopy she was obviously instantly sickened by the heat beating up at her, and Tiye saw sweat break out on her face.
Amunhotep nodded frigidly at his herald. “In the name of Amun the Almighty and Aten the All-Beautiful, I, Nebmaatra Hek-Waset, god of this land, welcome you, Tadukhipa, princess of Mitanni and daughter of my friend and brother the Lord Tushratta, to Thebes,” the man shouted, his staff of office held out before him. “May this marriage be a sign of the good relations between us.”
Amunhotep rose. Then, leaning down, he lifted Tadukhipa to her feet, a gesture that cost him much. Tiye had risen with him. All at once she felt his elbow slide along her arm, and knowing instantly what he wanted, she unobtrusively took his weight upon herself.
“My father sends his heartfelt greetings,” Tadukhipa said haltingly in a heavily accented Egyptian. “He places me with complete confidence in your august hands. He also sends the goddess Ishtar to you because he weeps over your illness. Ishtar is pleased to visit again the land she loves.” Turning, she crooked a finger at the slave behind her, and a black pall slid from the object he was holding, revealing a small golden statue. The assembly bowed. Tadukhipa passed it to Amunhotep with trembling hands.
He does not believe but wishes, in spite of himself, that Ishtar might hold the power he seeks, Tiye thought, watching him hand the crook, flail, and scimitar to the Keeper of the Royal Regalia and run gentle fingers over the goddess. I wish it, too. Her own fingers tightened on his arm, a gesture of possession and fear. I do not want it to end, she thought in despair. Today he strives to regain his youth like a blind man rubbing ashes on his eyes. This is no diplomatic marriage. It is the last throw of dice against death. Ah, Amunhotep! All the fresh promise of our youth has come to this. An old god trembling under the glare of a pitiless eternity and an aging goddess shorn at last of every illusion.
“Ptahhotep!” Pharoah croaked, and the high priest came forward swiftly to take Ishtar. “Set the goddess in the shrine in my bedchamber and see that she is offered food, wine, and incense. Let us now make our thanks to Amun for my wife’s safe arrival.”
A portable altar had been set up before the terrace, and beside it a huge stone bowl in which flames writhed, almost invisible in the noon sun. Amunhotep, with Tiye still at his side and Tadukhipa on his left, processed slowly behind the priests while the whole court fell in behind the Followers of His Majesty bringing up the rear. A bull, already trussed, lay on the altar, moaning through the restraining muzzle, its black eyes rolling. Cymbals clashed, and the systra began to rattle. For a moment Amunhotep had to stand and endure the chant rising from the gathered priests, and Tiye, feeling his distress through her fingers, prayed that he would not collapse.
Ptahhotep lifted the knife. A drum began to roll. As a cry issued from a thousand mouths, the knife arced down, and blood spurted, steaming, into the pitcher set below the beast’s throat. Even before it had ceased to twitch, acolytes slit its belly, and the intestines rippled out to fall into the trough prepared for them. The crowd began to applaud and shriek. Other priests expertly cut the sacrifice into the correct portions, and Amunhotep, gathering himself for this last effort, grasped each one and flung it into the fire. Dancers began to sway.
“Let Ptahhotep burn the antelopes and geese,” Tiye whispered to Amunhotep under cover of the uproar. “It is permitted. Let Kheruef take the girl to the harem. You must rest.”
He nodded. Taking Tadukhipa’s hand, he smiled at her, careful not to open his mouth and betray his rotted teeth in the unmerciful brightness of full daylight. “The Keeper of the Harem Door will delight in pleasing you,” he said, “and your aunt Gilupkhipa has been waiting for a long time to speak with you. Go.”
He did not wait to see her leave. Leaning on Tiye, he went slowly along the terrace and into the blessed obscurity of the audience hall. Behind him was a concerted rush and screams of delight as the courtiers fought to reach the bull’s blood being proffered to them. With red fingers they anointed foreheads, breasts, and feet, for a thanksgiving sacrifice brought much good luck.
That night a formal welcoming feast was held for Tadukhipa. She sat beside Pharaoh on the dais of the banqueting hall, a stiff, heavily painted doll that only spoke when it was addressed, enduring timidly the frankly assessing stares of the hundreds of courtiers and guests who filled the vast room. On Amunhotep’s right, regal in horned crown with the double plumes, Tiye watched the servants carefully to see that Tadukhipa was not neglected, but her concern was more for her husband, who slumped in his chair, eyes often closed, breathing heavily and rousing himself with effort to pass polite remarks to his new wife. Beside Tiye, Sitamun’s fingers flashed over the little gilded table piled with flowers. She was eating and drinking with a steady concentration, pausing only to lean across her mother and offer some dainty morsel to Amunhotep. A fitful breeze gusted between the pillars from the dark surface of the lake, but the air remained stale, laden with the odors of food and the perfumed oil that dribbled from the melting cones tied to the wigs of the feasters.
Between the tables crowded on the floor of the hall naked dancers dipped and swayed, their anklets clashing, the silver weights woven into their hair shining as they passed under the torches. Gracefully they bent to gather the trinkets, pieces of gold, scribbled offers of employment, or propositions that were flung at them by the company, whose ribald shouts fought with the drums and harps of Pharaoh’s court musicians. Tiye, momentarily diverted, saw Princess Tia-Ha rise from her cushions where she sat among Pharaoh’s wives and, shedding the long blue sheath that enveloped her, slide naked to the foot of the dais. Amunhotep grunted. Tia-Ha bowed to him, blowing a kiss and tossing back her hair as her body loosened and began to undulate with the swift rhythm of the music. “That woman will never die,” he said admiringly. “She is too full of Hathor’s fertile vitality. Do you like to dance, Princess?”
Tadukhipa turned shy, startled eyes upon her lord while below her the assembly began to whistle and clap for Tia-Ha. “I have been taught the temple dances for Savriti the Many-Armed,” she said. “If Your Majesty wishes it, I will dance for him.”
“Tonight, Tadukhipa,” he replied kindly, seeing her distress, “you have the fragile beauty of a spring cornflower, too delicate for the eyes of these drunken bees.” He patted her arm and turned his attention to Tiye. “Suppiluliumas lost no time in sending representation to me,” he said, “but the upstart Khatti prince’s ambassador is uncouth, obviously nothing but an adventuring soldier.” He nodded to where the man sat among th
e other foreign dignitaries, his unshod feet propped on his table, his arms around two dancers he had captured, his long, tangled hair and bushing beard flying as he talked rapidly to Ay, who was perched on a cushion beside him, listening politely.
“The Khatti have never cared for social skills,” Tiye responded, her own eyes thoughtfully on the laughing soldier, “and they have barely learned the rules of rudimentary diplomacy. Their arrogance and their raw strength make them dangerous. Let this man be entertained by Ay, soldier to soldier. Ay speaks the language of the barracks and will discover quickly what this Suppiluliumas wants of Egypt. Apart from gold, of course. It would be wise to give audience to the ambassador from Mitanni tomorrow and learn what Tushratta thinks of them. He is directly involved.”
Sitamun leaned forward, patting her red lips with a square of linen. “The Khatti live for war,” she offered. “Invasions keep them healthy. Palace insurrections are a cause for celebration, and killing gives them a hearty appetite. It is no wonder that they have no time for cultural pursuits. The Babylonians can at least be reasoned with and are sophisticated enough to enjoy the game of politics, but not these people. They understand only the language of the spear.”
To a renewed burst of applause, Tia-Ha swayed back to her cushions and coolly shrugged into her sheath before sitting and calling for wine.
“It is often the bully who can be cowed with threats and encouraged with vague promises,” Tiye answered her daughter. “Ay will bring me a report when he is ready. Until then we must see that the foreigner is given all that he desires.”
Sitamun smiled and dabbled her fingers in the wine. “Give him Mutnodjme,” she drawled. “They are two of a kind. Is my lord retiring?”
Amunhotep had pulled himself to his feet, and at once the revelry in the hall died to a ripple of whispers. The Keeper of the Royal Regalia rose also, lifting the precious emblems from the box he carried everywhere with him and raising them high above his head. Pharaoh nodded at his herald.
“Mani, come forward!” the man called.
Egypt’s ambassador to Mitanni left his cushions and strode to the foot of the dais, a thin, dignified man with white hair and stooped shoulders. He prostrated himself with ease and remained with his face to the cool tiling, and Tiye felt in her own body the drawing in of her husband’s frail resources before he spoke.
“Mani, lover of the gods and true servant of Egypt,” he said at last, forcing his voice to ring out, deep and commanding, over the company. “For the skill and devotion with which you have carried out your duties, and as a sign of our continued approval, I award to you the Gold of Favors. Rise.”
Mani did so, holding out his hands as Pharaoh began to strip himself of the jewelry that bedecked him, tossing each piece to the unsmiling man. Bracelets, rings, earrings, the heavy gold pectoral showered onto the tiles, clinking and rattling. Mani bowed. The people began to shout. Amunhotep disinterestedly signaled to his servants and left the dais. Tiye nodded at Kheruef, who approached Tadukhipa with smiles and a firm indication that she should also leave.
“Have you had word yet from Memphis?” Sitamun asked.
Tiye tore her eyes from the sight of her husband striving to remain erect as he shuffled through the doors of the hall. “No, only a communication from the Nile patrol to the effect that Horemheb and the prince arrived safely.”
Sitamun emptied her goblet and, wiping a hand across her oil-smeared breasts, pulled down a ringlet from her wig and began to work the oil into it. “I think that when the river begins to sink, I will accompany Nefertiti to Memphis,” she said, not looking at her mother. “It will be a pleasant change. I always try to be close to my estates when the grapes begin to bud so that I may have some idea of what harvest to expect. One cannot trust even one’s stewards, as you know. In any case, I have three ships being built in the Memphis shipyard, and I want to be present when they are launched.”
Tiye leaned slowly toward Sitamun, and the younger woman’s blue eyes swiveled to meet hers. “No, Sitamun, you will not,” Tiye said emphatically. “Your brother is not for you. You are to stay away from him. When Pharaoh dies, I will assess the situation, and if Ay and I consider it necessary, Amunhotep can have you, but until then you will devote yourself to your father. Your power is already great enough.”
Sitamun’s eyebrows rose and she shrugged. “It is difficult to devote myself to a man who makes love all night to that boy and spends his days drinking,” she said crossly, her full lips drawn down in the pout that often mirrored Tiye’s own. “My life is incredibly boring. By the time you were my age, Mother, you had been empress and the most powerful woman in the world for a long time.”
Tiye watched the light glint on flecks of gold dust caught in the damp curls falling on Sitamun’s forehead. Faint tracks of discontent showed through the rouge on her daughter’s round, burnished cheeks, and the strong black-painted brows were pulled together in a frown. Was my face already falling into lines of willfulness when I was her age? Tiye wondered. She rose and again the noise died away. “I would not like to have you disciplined, Sitamun, so be patient. Nefertiti will be empress, but it is possible that you will become second wife.”
“I am already a second wife to one pharaoh and do not wish to spend the rest of my life being second wife to another. I have earned the position of empress. And do not think that you can discipline me in the harem as you did Princess Nebet-nuhe, Mother. I have a food taster in my pay.”
Tiye gripped Sitamun’s stiff, bare shoulder. “I was a child, acting out a child’s groundless panic,” she spat. “You are too sophisticated to view this situation with such naiveté, Sitamun. Now go to bed. Herald! Tell Tia-Ha to join me in the garden if she is sober enough. I want to swim. Sleep well, Daughter.” She left the hall through the rear doors, not glancing back at the sea of bent heads, and as the doorkeepers closed them behind her, she heard Mutnodjme’s whip slash the air and one of the dwarfs howl in pain. The rest was swallowed in music and drunken laughter.
Tiye woke suddenly in the late night, drenched in sweat. A shaded lamp hovered by her couch and Piha’s respectful hand touched her hair. “Kheruef waits without,” the servant whispered. “Horus has sent for you, Majesty.”
Groaning, Tiye swung her legs onto the floor, reaching automatically for the cup of cool water that was kept on the little bedside table. Piha held her gown while she slipped it on, and combed the sticky brown tresses. “I was dreaming of the moon on the water at Akhmin,” she murmured drowsily. “Ay was a boy, and my father stood in the boat with his throwing stick poised. Does such a dream have meaning, Piha?”
“I do not know, Majesty. Shall I wash you?”
“No, I am too tired. I drank too much wine, I think. Wait up for me, and raise the hangings on the windows. I can hardly breathe in here.”
Outside the door, Kheruef bowed without speaking, and the harem guards swung into formation behind and before her. In silence they walked the deserted corridors, crossed Tiye’s own private garden, and entered Pharaoh’s quarters through the connecting gate in the wall. As they approached the harem garden, Tiye, her feet soundless on the springing grass, became aware of a thousand soft murmurings rising and falling over the wall, and the plaintive trill of a single harp string bewitched the night. Glancing up at the roof of the building, she saw its even silhouette broken by vague humps and moving shadows, for the women had taken to the roof in the heat, lying on their cushions to catch the faintest breeze out of the north. Down where flower beds and lawns gave way to paved water steps and clusters of palms, the river was running swiftly, its passing a constant, soporific gurgle and slap in the backwaters where it darkly, slowly had begun to lick at its banks, and where frogs croaked harshly. The night air was humid but cooler than the day, and Tiye inhaled it deeply as she turned back into the palace, feeling the last vestiges of sleep drain away.
Within the dim labyrinth of Splendor of the Aten, Pharaoh’s private quarters, the scorching night breath of Ra still hung,
fetid and merciless. Her escort halted and drew back. The guards opened the doors, the herald announced her, and she walked into Pharaoh’s bedchamber.
He was propped up with cushions, his mouth half-open, his eyes puffy and slitted against what little light came from the few alabaster lamps that glowed warmly around him. Flies buzzed and stumbled over his flabby, naked body, but he seemed not to notice them. A jar of wine, its broken seal lying crumbled beside it, stood next to his hand, and his cup lay on the floor, empty. Tiye came swiftly up to the couch and bowed.
“Horus, where is the bearer of the whisk?” she said, distressed, picking the instrument from among the sheets and plying it gently.
He smiled and rallied at the mild sting of the horsehair, and the flies rose in an angry cloud. “Shall I deny the flies of Egypt the right to feast off their god?” he said lightly, hoarsely. “They are as predatory and glutted as the rest of my citizens. Truly, my Tiye, I did not notice them. I sent the servants away hours ago. Even their tread annoyed me.”
“Shall I send for water and fresh linen, and perhaps some fruit?” She glanced about the room, but there was no sign of the boy.
“No. When you leave.” He spoke abruptly, sighing, his mind only half on her words, and she waited for him to tell her why he had sent for her. Presently he rolled over on the couch and buried his shaven skull among the pillows. “There is oil in a dish, somewhere on the table,” he said, his voice muffled. “Massage me, Tiye. I cannot bear the touch of a slave tonight.”
The Twelfth Transforming Page 4
