“I think not,” she disagreed gently. “Tutankhaten is too young. He would become the prey of unscrupulous men who through him would seek to undo all you have done for the Disk.”
“You could be regent,” he offered, blinking up at her.
Tiye smiled into the simple, confident face. “Akhenaten, I am not going to live forever. Neither are you. Smenkhara is now sixteen, and a man. He would need no regent, only advisors. He is not your son but is of my body and your brother. Declare for him so that I may sleep in peace.” She watched him carefully for the telltale signs of distress, but he remained calm, lying loosely under the thin sheet, only the fingers warm in her grasp betraying any reaction. His face held an expression of sad dignity. Meritaten had gone suddenly still, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Tiye.
“I would have to make him a full member of the family of the Disk,” he said musingly, “but perhaps it is ordained. He looks very like me, Mother, have you noticed? The same shape to his head.” Akhenaten gently removed his hand from hers and placed it on his breast. “I understood the things the people did not speak today,” he went on. “I pretended not to, but I did. They ask in vain. The Aten will not give us water. I know it. The sin must be mine, that the god does not hear my prayers. Perhaps he tires of his son, and his eyes have turned to a new incarnation.” His voice was full of defeat and a genuine sorrow. “Very well. Have the scroll prepared, and I shall sign and seal it, but not today.” The light voice was thick with fatigue. “I must sleep. Meritaten, stay with me. I am afraid.”
Hardly daring to acknowledge her victory, Tiye ordered a scribe to her own quarters and dictated the document giving Smenkhara the right to wear the Double Crown upon his brother’s death. She kept it with her, determined to waste no time and acquire Pharaoh’s seal as soon as possible the next day. Then she sent for Smenkhara. He did not appear for hours, and when at last he bowed before her, he was drowsy with wine.
“If I cannot swim or be with Meritaten, I might as well drink,” he said sulkily in answer to her sarcastic comment. “My friends and I were at Maru-Aten. There is not much foliage left, but the pavilion is cool.”
She threw the scroll at him. “Read that.”
Listlessly he unrolled it, leaning against the wall. When he had finished, he dropped it on the couch. “Well, it is about time,” he said, “but it means little now. Pharaoh could live on for many years while Meritaten grows old and fat and I waste away with boredom.”
“What have I done that the gods should have punished me with such a surly, ignorant, selfish, ungrateful son?” Tiye stormed. “l have just obtained Egypt for you, yet you still complain. Listen to me. From now on, Pharaoh will watch you closely. You must be dutiful in the temple. Close your Amun shrine. Do not spend too much time with your friends. We do not wish to suggest that you are planning to take the crown before it comes to you legitimately. It hurts me, Smenkhara, but I do not think that Pharaoh has long to live. You should think about what you will do with Egypt when he has gone.”
Smenkhara shrugged, and Tiye, watching him relaxed against the wall, seeing the slouching, thin shoulders and small swell under his belt, felt a pang of real fear go through her. “I like Akhetaten,” he replied. “You kept me from it long enough. I shall stay here and let Malkatta rot. I shall marry Meritaten and enjoy my rights as pharaoh.”
“It does not matter where you live as long as you take steps to stabilize our foreign dominion and restore the worship of Amun.”
“That sounds very uninteresting. I suppose I ought to think about sending out ambassadors. Have you any wine here, Mother?”
“No. Think about what you will do, but remember that you are not pharaoh yet. If you appear too eager, Pharaoh might change his mind.”
“What mind?” Smenkhara laughed.
To her astonishment, Tiye felt her eyes fill with tears. “It is a mind filled with the kind of dreams no god would even deign to show you,” she said thickly. “I refuse to let you make fun of him, and I order you to shut the blasphemous mouths of your so-called friends. He is my son, and I love him. Get out of my sight.”
“He was your husband, too, as long as you had use for him,” Smenkhara said rudely, pulling himself away from the wall, bowing perfunctorily, and sauntering to the door. “Do not think, Empress, that you can use me also. When the Double Crown is on my head and Meritaten is in my bed, I will be grateful, but not until then.” He did not wait for a retort or a dismissal, and the door slammed shut behind him.
Tiye lay back and let the tears come. They were not solely for Akhenaten but also for herself, the sudden, helpless weeping of the old, for whom self-pity is an inviting indulgence. Smenkhara was a callous, self-seeking man who was not yet aware that in looking with such scorn upon his brother he was seeing himself.
Pharaoh ratified the document of succession the next day, as he had promised. A ripple of relief went through the palace, and the more naive courtiers and large numbers of the city dwellers went to the river, watching the dribble of water the river had now become and expecting the Aten to signal his pleasure by releasing the flood. But others were too preoccupied to care what Horus might be in the nest, for news had arrived from the Delta that disease was beginning to spread among the herds, whose grazing land was becoming bare. Frantic dispatches were exchanged between courtiers and their stewards on the Delta estates, but all knew there was nothing to be done.
Djarukha was faring less badly than other estates. Two large lakes were maintained on Tiye’s property and at her order were being used to at least sprinkle the fields so that some grass might be available for her cattle. She also kept a store of grain there that her steward opened for the villages that housed her workers. She did not intend to be faced with dead fellahin, no one to work when the Nile did rise again. Ay was attempting to relieve those on the family estate at Akhmin with the same measures, but the slaves of other nobles were not so fortunate.
Pakhons and Payni dragged slowly by, and now the emaciated bodies of peasants began to be found cast against the banks beneath the water steps in Akhetaten itself, mingled with the bodies of oxen and decomposing goats. The courtiers were shocked and indignant, and Ay commissioned soldiers to patrol the river near the southern customs house at all times so that they might hook the bodies out of the water before they drifted within sight of the city. But they could not snare every one, and the nobles kept as far from the Nile as they could so that they might not see or smell Egypt’s agony. Pharaoh supplied the favored of the city with grain. Akhetaten was magic, was holy, was the seat of the god and his chosen family, and in it, no citizen was allowed to go hungry. The dwellers of the city sat down to bread and last year’s wine while the fire of Shemu consumed the land and Egypt lay like a barren desert, filled only with the wails and keening of mourners.
Nefertiti’s lush terraces began to wither. Whether the deposed queen re fused all contact with the city, immuring herself in wounded pride, or Pharaoh himself had ordered that no communication take place, Tiye did not know, but she sent Huya to the north palace to make certain her niece was in good health. He returned with only his own impressions. The lake had dried up. Nefertiti was well, although there was sickness among her staff.
“The queen is very silent,” he said, “and sharp-tongued when she does speak. She has put on a little weight, but it only adds to her loveliness. Her face is becoming very sorrowful.”
Tiye was reassured to know that Nefertiti was well and seemed to be ruling her own little kingdom capably. She resolved to secure her release if Smenkhara became Pharaoh in her lifetime. Nefertiti would no longer be in a position to cause much harm in government.
The sickness in the north palace soon invaded the central city as well. Hardest struck in the royal palace were the nurseries and the older women on the harem staff. Huya, worried and harassed as he tried to organize the comings and goings of physicians, isolate the dying from the healthy, and see to the removal of bodies, advised Tiye to remove Tutankhaten and Beketa
ten from the palace entirely. Tiye immediately arranged for the children to stay across the river with Tey. Pharaoh, buoyed by the certainty that in making Smenkhara his heir he had placated the Disk, was convinced that the sickness would soon die away. Although high summer had come, he paraded through the harem apartments preceded by a worshipping Meryra, rebuking the ill and dying for their lack of faith and promising them that soon the river would flood and their bodies would be cleansed. But looking up at their king’s wet, red mouth, the trembling of his hands, the feverish gleam in his eyes, the stricken saw death grinning at them over his shoulder.
The sem-priests and employees of the palace House of the Dead worked steadily to prepare those who had died within Pharaoh’s domain for burial, but the place of embalming for the ordinary citizens of Akhetaten soon became so choked with rotting corpses that a special edict was issued from the temple Office of Physicians allowing bodies to receive a rudimentary embalming before being buried immediately in the desert. Bereaved families found themselves observing the obligatory seventy days of mourning for relatives who had already been placed in the sand. Worse still, many of the dead decomposed so rapidly that by the time the hard-pressed embalmers came to examine them, they were no longer able to be preserved.
The stench of death hung over palace and city while the disease ran its course. Tiye kept to her quarters, having her servants burn perfumed oil to mask the odor, but it could not be entirely erased. Every day she sent a herald across to Ay’s house with orders to bring back a full report on the welfare of Beketaten and Tutankhaten, waiting anxiously until he had returned to reassure her that the children were not ill. Five times she received thankfully the same message, but on the sixth morning the herald reported sickness among Tey’s servants and the grim news that Princess Beketaten was suffering from a cold. Immediately Tiye began to arrange for the children to be sent north to her estate at Djarukha.
She had almost completed the preparations for the journey by noon of the next day when Huya came to her, his face grave. “Majesty”—he bowed—“Princess Tey begs your presence, together with your physician. Beketaten is too ill to be moved.”
Tiye’s heart sank, but she fought against the dread stealing over her. “Very well. Send Piha to dress me and have my barge ready. Is Tutankhaten well?”
“Yes. But two of Tey’s tiring women died yesterday.”
Tiye had been resting. She swung her legs over the edge of the couch, her heart suddenly pounding, sweat breaking out all over her body. The heat was unendurable. “Go and inform Pharaoh.”
“Majesty, the god has been vomiting all morning, and his physicians will not let him rise.”
“Well, then, tell Panhesy.”
She let Piha drape her in thin linen but could not bear either the touch of paint on her aching face or the weight of a wig on her head. In one more month it will be New Year’s Day, she thought as she walked slowly into the sunlight, and in another, the river will begin to rise. Winter will be here again. Isis, I have prayed to you every day to turn your anger away from us. Soften your heart and let the tears flow. She went slowly, one hand on Piha’s shoulder to steady her self, dizzy and frail. Beketaten, I loved you as a child, her thoughts ran on painfully, but I have ignored you of late. Have you been lonely? But under that new source of guilt an older one flowed dark and inevitable. She is her father’s sister. The gods are finally punishing me. Beketaten will die.
The river was so low that the boatman had to pole against jagged, half-submerged trees and even rocks that jutted ominously above the surface. Tiye, in the cabin with curtains raised to catch any breeze, saw the bloated body of a huge crocodile go by, circling lazily under the poleman’s quick thrust. She looked away; it was a bad omen. When they reached the west bank, the ramp was run out, canated upward to reach the first water step, and Tiye needed her captain’s arm to stop herself from falling as she crossed. The odor of the milky water was like a physical blow, and she raised her perfumed linen to her nose and hurried through the brittle garden toward the shade of the portico. Tutankhaten came running to meet her, and before steeling herself to go within she bent and hugged him, all at once terrified for his safety. It is no use sending him to Djarukha, she thought, feeling his sturdy arms around her neck. There is plague everywhere. Perhaps Nefertiti would take him. The sickness in her palace seems to be slight. Warning him to stay close to his own apartment, she kissed him and plunged into the stifling house.
Tey had had the good sense to raise the window hangings on the west side of Beketaten’s room and to station fanbearers beside the window to waft air within. Beketaten lay on her side, wracked by shivers. On touching her Tiye recoiled, for the girl’s skin was dry, and as hot as a brazier. The Aten is consuming her. Her own father is eating her up, she thought hysterically, and then immediately mastered herself. Bowls of river water stood on the table by the couch, and a physician washed the girl continually. At a nod from Tiye, her own physician made a swift examination, but Beketaten was unaware of his touch. She was muttering and occasionally calling out in delirium. Both physicians consulted while Tiye stood overwhelmed, looking down on the thirteen-year-old fruit of herself and Pharaoh.
“There is a boil on the princess’s lower spine that is not ready to be lanced,” her physician said quietly. “It must be causing her great pain. As you know, Majesty, nothing can be done for the fever. It must run its course. Spells might be efficacious.”
Spells. Tiye closed her eyes. Do I have any right to obstruct the anger of the gods? Yes, I do, for their wrath ought to be directed at me, not my child. She turned to Tey, hovering anxiously in the background. “Is it too much to hope that there are magicians in Akhetaten who know the old chants against fever demons, Tey?”
Tey looked thoughtful. “My artisans would know. I will ask at once.” As she went out, Beketaten began to shriek, and the physicians ran to her. Her body had begun to convulse, her spine arching, her legs stiff, and the men needed all their strength to hold her against the mattress. When the fit was over, Tiye bent to comfort her, but though her eyes were open, consciousness had not yet returned to the girl.
In Tey’s pretty reception room Tiye accepted wine and some dried fruit from the previous year’s crop, chewing and swallowing with distaste. She had scarcely finished when Tey bowed, three swarthy, awed workmen in coarse kilts and bare feet behind her. They hurried to prostrate themselves.
“These men are employed in my workshops, Majesty,” Tey explained apologetically. “I do not think any priest-magicians of the old order reside at Akhetaten, and in any case, finding them would take too long. My men are not priests but know the spells. Fever is a constant companion of the workman.”
Tiye looked down on the sturdy backs and untidy black heads at her feet. It was true, there was no time. What has Egypt come to, she thought resignedly, when a royal princess must endure the presence of three fellahin such as these? “Get up,” she said unwillingly. They struggled to their feet and stood awkwardly with eyes averted. “You will sing against the demon in my daughter’s body. You will keep your backs turned to her couch. When all is finished, I will reward you with one month’s supply of grain. Come with me.”
She took them to Beketaten. The girl was crying now without tears, a whimper on every outward breath that stabbed Tiye to the heart. As carefully as they could, the men went to the far wall and faced it, clearing their throats, humming until they found the tone they wanted. They began to sing, a rough, uncouth sound that nevertheless brought back to those listening a distorted reflection of the past. There was a small flurry behind Tiye, and she swung round to find a herald on his knees. “Well?”
He held out a scroll. “Pharaoh is very distressed for his daughter,” the man whispered. “He commands that this be laid on her breast. He cannot come himself.”
“What is it?”
“It contains a prayer of healing to the Aten.”
“Go.” When he had been ushered out, she unrolled the scroll and deliber
ately ripped it in two. Dropping the pieces on the floor, she stalked after him. The workmen would sing until the fever abated or the princess died. There was nothing more that Tiye could do.
Beketaten died four hours later, weakened not only by the fever but also by the convulsions that had not been prevented by the physicians’ attempts to cool her. Huya arrived, and Tiye gave him instructions for the disposition of the small body. She did not go to look at her daughter herself. She could not bear the sight of another corpse, another lifeless husk, even one to which her own body had given form. “Take her quickly to my embalmers,” she ordered. “By the time her father issues his own directives, her beautification will have begun. I would send her to Karnak for proper burial if I could. I will stay here with Tey for another night, Huya. I do not wish to go back into the city just yet.”
Huya hesitated. “Majesty, while I was preparing to come, a letter arrived for you from the Delta, from the estate of the Princess Tia-Ha.”
Tiye did not need to be told its contents. Her judgment had begun, and from now on nothing would halt the pitiless revenge of the gods “She is dead, then?”
Huya nodded. “In her sleep, Majesty. She left certain pieces of jewelry to you, and a promise that she will speak favorably of you to the gods.”
A goddess did not need the pleadings of a mere human, Tiye knew, but Tia-Ha understood the needs of her empress. The strongest link with my past has been broken, she thought as she made her way unsteadily to the chamber Tey had set aside for her. My dear friend, my cheerful companion, I have not laughed since we parted. There is no loneliness as poignant as this. I cannot grieve for my own daughter as intensely as I mourn for you, the one who shared my life since girlhood and who has taken its memories with you. She lay on her couch, watching the sunset paint the walls red before washing them with darkness, aware, with the dying of the light, that to be left alive after all she had cared for was gone was punishment enough for any sin.
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