25
Horemheb rose as Ay came into the room, his hand already out in an apologetic greeting, his eyes indicating the chair set for the fanbearer. The antechamber was airless and dark but for the one lamp Horemheb had himself lighted and carried in from his bedchamber. Ay advanced slowly, still drugged with a heavy, restless sleep, trying to gather his wits for whatever this strange request might bring, yet for the present aware only of his laboring breath. He held the commander’s lean fingers briefly before lowering himself into the proffered seat and wiping the sweat from his face. His eyes burned; his mouth felt dry and foul. His mind was full of the nightmare he had been having when his steward had shaken him awake, and the terror of it still quickened his heartbeat. The same dream came to him often these nights, sometimes jerking him awake to reach for Tey’s reassuring body but more often lasting until the first grayness of dawn, leaving him exhausted and frightened.
“There is water if you need it,” Horemheb said quietly, himself taking a chair. “Forgive me for disturbing you in the middle of the night, Fanbearer, but this could not wait, and although you and I have seen little of each other lately, I did not want to act alone on a matter of such gravity.”
Surprised, Ay studied the commander. Horemheb was naked in the heat. His shoulder-length black hair straggled stickily against his brown neck. Without paint, his face was open to Ay’s gaze, still handsome, now tensely alert, making Ay feel old, flabby, and sick. I shall die before you, Ay thought. I knew it but had not really considered it before. I think I have always envied you, my imperious son-in-law. “Tell me,” he said tersely.
Horemheb handed him a scroll and pushed the lamp toward him. At any other time Ay might have considered the gesture an insult to his failing powers, but tonight he simply unrolled the papyrus and began to read.
Once finished, he did not need to look at it again. Carefully he let it roll up, placed it on the table, and then folded his hands, feeling Horemheb’s steady gaze on him. For a long time he could not move, but finally he had composed himself enough to look up and meet the commander’s eyes. “How did you come by this scroll?” he asked shakily.
“May sent it to me from the fort that guards the desert road into southern Syria,” Horemheb replied, himself immobile as he regarded Ay. “A small company passed through from Egypt, one of our ambassadors and a foreigner who said he was a Canaanite envoy on his way home to Askalon to help arrange a sale of grain to us, but May became suspicious and had the ambassador’s belongings searched while the two travelers were resting.” He pointed at the roll of papyrus on the table. “The original of that was in the man’s pouch. May did not know whether to detain the company, or whether we at court were involved with your daughter’s help in some complex negotiation with the Khatti, so he let them proceed. It is as well for us that May followed his intuition.”
Shocked and sick at heart, Ay dropped his gaze. “This is not a royal woman seeking to fill the emptiness of her bed with a lover,” he ventured. “This is my daughter, a queen of Egypt, engaged secretly in deepest treason with an enemy.” He knew he must not ask Horemheb what should be done, and thus put himself in the position of an underling. The first advantage had been the commander’s, and Ay must not strengthen it. “Nefertiti has always been in love with position and power but lacking the means to retain what she did acquire,” he offered in the steadiest voice he could. “But I cannot believe her capable of perceiving this plot as cold-blooded treason. Surely all she saw was a desperate chance to regain an active role in government.”
“I agree,” Horemheb said. “But I am surprised that she was capable of conceiving such a plan at all, and having taken it, Ay. If May had not had his wits about him, if her ambassador had passed unseen…”
“But he did not,” Ay cut in, still battling the emotion that threatened to disarm him. My daughter. My own flesh, willing to hand over the whole of Egypt in one moment at a time when the country is in agony. Does she feel any remorse? Did she battle any shame?
“No, he did not,” Horemheb reiterated slowly. “So we must decide what to do. I am particularly shocked because the queen cannot have known the outcome of the battle with Suppiluliumas when she began to make her overtures. She cannot therefore even be excused by the justification that this was Egypt’s only chance for peace after defeat. It is nothing but the most ruthless bid for power.”
“Such self-righteousness, from a man with his own glance straying to the Double Crown!” Ay snapped, stung into an irrational defense of his daughter, for whom, he had already been forced to acknowledge, there was no defense. “I know you well, Horemheb, as you know me. If the opportunity came your way, you would take it, wouldn’t you?”
“I am tired of seeing the might of Egypt passing and passing again into hands not worthy or capable of controlling it!” Horemheb shouted back. “Years ago I should have risked all to depose Akhenaten and find a faithful son of Amun to place on the throne, as you should. We, too, are traitors for letting the greatest empire in the world die slowly while we argued the validity of the Aten’s right to rule Egypt through your nephew!” Horemheb sat back, breathing hard, and Ay scanned him slowly.
“You think you are safe in revealing yourself to me tonight because I am old, and you believe my day is over,” he said softly. “But you are wrong, Commander, so be prudent in what you say. Your own position has never been more precarious. Your bid for influence over Smenkhara through a successful war did not work.” He wanted a drink of water but would not reach for the jug. “But you did not ask me to come to air our personal grievances. We must solve this dilemma.”
“It is no dilemma.” Horemheb had retreated, leaning back into the shadows so his face was in darkness. “She deserves execution.”
“Whether she deserves it or not, we cannot kill her. The credibility and veneration accorded to royalty has never been weaker. Egypt is weary of its ruler’s selfishness and is crying out for reassurance. If a queen is put under the knife, that credibility will be destroyed. How can a goddess be executed by her worshipers? The common people must never be allowed to ask themselves that question. Besides, Horemheb, Nefertiti is no Tiye. She is not entirely responsible for actions whose consequences she did not foresee.”
“So speaks the doting father!” Horemheb sneered. “She could have saved Egypt long ago, when Akhenaten adored and trusted her, but she was too selfish and stupid to try. She deserves death. But you are right when you speak of political necessity. Therefore I suggest that we send to May, ordering him to lie in wait for this prince just over the border and kill him and all with him when he appears.”
“Providing Suppiluliumas cooperates.” Despondently Ay had come to realize in the course of their conversation that Horemheb need not have consulted him at all. He could have made the excuse that it was primarily a military matter and dealt with it himself, presenting Ay later with a remedy already applied. Pulling the water toward him, he drank deeply. I wonder how long it will be, he thought darkly, before Horemheb realizes that Nefertiti could be killed secretly and some innocuous story spread for the benefit of the peasants. She has been living quietly in the north palace for so long that many must believe her already dead.
“Oh, he will,” Horemheb replied emphatically. “Whatever doubts he may have, he will not neglect an opportunity for a bloodless victory. He has loomed over Egypt for so long that we have begun to imbue him with the attributes of a god, but he is not without weaknesses. Yes, he sent our army fleeing, but if our soldiers had been even slightly better prepared, the story would have been different. One day we will defeat him.”
“But we cannot dream of one day. We must consider the next hour,” Ay reminded him dryly. “Does Smenkhara know of this?” It was a foolish question, Ay thought even as he asked it. Of course Horemheb would have gone straight to the prince for permission to act, and Smenkhara must have insisted that the commander confer with me. Otherwise, Ay thought, I might never have known of this.
“Yes,”
Horemheb answered. “He has graciously consented to wait while we deliberate, and, of course, if we had disagreed on a plan of action, he would have had the last word. Shall we go to him?”
Ay pulled himself out of the chair and stood for a moment to allow his heartbeat to slow before following Horemheb from the room.
Smenkhara, like Horemheb, was naked but for a sweat-stained blue ribbon bound around his forehead and a small turquoise Eye of Horus hanging on a thin gold chain around his neck. He was slumped on the throne in his reception room, cushions under him, one heel hooked high on the edge of the gilt seat, one pale arm resting on a raised knee. They knelt before him and rose, waiting for him to speak. In here there were many lamps, and Smenkhara did not seem to mind the added heat or their throat-catching perfume.
“Well, Uncle,” he said caustically, “my royal cousin has outdone herself in foolishness this time. Is there any reason why she should not be killed or exiled? Perhaps we could send her to the Khatti, seeing that she seems to have such a desire for their company.”
It was a personal accusation, and Ay prepared to answer, but surprisingly Horemheb said quickly, “Highness, nothing would be served by the queen’s death. The fanbearer and I propose that sentries be posted in northern Syria and a small accident arranged for the foreigner who will surely come. If we are clever, even Suppiluliumas will not be able to accuse Egypt directly of the murder.”
“Nothing would be served?” Smenkhara cut in violently, his voice rising, the languid hand hanging from his knee suddenly clenching. “My mother promised me the Double Crown. She promised! I deserve it. It is mine by right of blood, and Nefertiti would have taken it from me!”
Curiously Ay watched the color rise quickly in the long face, the shallow chest heave with emotion. He did not dare to meet Horemheb’s eye, but he knew the commander was also keenly aware of the faint echo of Akhenaten. For the first time in many months a moment of mutual understanding passed between the two men, and as though the prince had sensed it, he ran a hand quickly and almost defensively over his shaven skull.
“I suppose it does not matter,” he went on more calmly. “In a short time Akhenaten will be buried, and I will be Pharaoh, with Meritaten as my queen. What can my cousin do then?” He leaned forward slightly and stared coldly at the two men. “You both realize that if you ambush the foreigner, you must be sure to kill every member of his entourage, including any of Nefertiti’s messengers. Otherwise word will get back to Suppiluliumas.”
Horemheb nodded. “Your Highness can leave the details to me.”
Smenkhara shot a shrewd glance at his uncle. “Does the fanbearer have any objections?”
Ay bowed. “None, Fledgling.”
Smenkhara uncurled, stood, and without another look at them strode into the shadows. Ay let out a long breath. Horemheb was smiling at him quizzically. “It is like stepping back ten years, is it not?” he remarked.
“Use the cavalry, Commander,” Ay said, ignoring Horemheb’s comment, “and disguise the men as desert Apiru. The Khatti prince’s escort will doubtless be mounted, and we want no mistakes. Everyone knows how dangerous the desert road has become. We may just succeed with it.”
“A good idea.” Horemheb’s eyes cleared in a flash. “Do you want copies of my directives to May?”
“No. Only send me word when it is all over.” Ay managed a sketchy, polite bow before turning and walking slowly away. He had never been so weary.
The period of mourning for Akhenaten was drawing to a close. Day after day Nefertiti sat by the window in silence, searching the hot silver surface of the river flowing below, watching the flicker of the torches she had ordered to be set along the banks at night. She woke each dawn after brief and troubled sleeps with bloodshot, itching eyes and hands already shaking with an anxiety she could no longer control. She could not bear to be addressed and would answer with sharp words or tears that inflamed her eyes even more. Her physician prescribed an ointment that gummed her lashes together and caused her to sit hour upon hour whisking at the flies attracted by its strong odor, but at least it cooled her eyes and afforded her some relief. She at last forced herself away from the damning window, lying instead on her couch in a darkened room. No one came near her. Even Tutankhaten, a placid and biddable boy, had grown weary of her screams and the sting of her fist and kept to his own apartments and the peace of the empty gardens. Nefertiti tasted her own loneliness and found it bitter.
On the morning of her husband’s funeral she found the strength to sit at her cosmetics table to be painted. With vanity she laid aside the ointment in order to wear kohl, but her face had to be washed and washed again, so badly did her eyes water. There was still time for the Khatti prince to arrive. Anything could have happened to him, to Hani: lame horses, a detour to avoid discovery, illness, perhaps. They might even now be approaching Akhetaten. At the thought she opened her eyes, and her cosmetician stifled an exclamation of annoyance and reached for a damp cloth. Smenkhara would not become divine until tomorrow. There were still hours, and any hour could bring deliverance. The heavy wig was lowered onto her head. The gold net set with lapis lazuli followed, attached carefully onto the coronet to which a hooded cobra, which she was allowed to wear, having once been a queen, was hooked. Behind her stood her tiring women, waiting to dress her in the blue sheath of mourning, the golden sandals, the diaphanous short blue cloak. Outside under the blazing sun her barge nudged the water steps whose every fleck of color, every angle, was now as familiar to her as her own face. “I must have wine if I am to get through this day,” she gasped, feeling her eyes begin to run again, and immediately a servant knelt with a silver goblet. She drank quickly, without pleasure. I began this torment, she thought, but I cannot end it. Turning her face to the cosmetician, she waited for the man to wipe away the streaks of kohl from her cheeks. When it was time to depart, she found she could not walk without the unobtrusive support of her attendants.
Nefertiti kept her litter curtains closed during the walk to the place on the eastern edge of the city where the funeral procession was forming. Though she could hear the cries of her heralds and guards clearing a way for her through the crowds gathered on either side of the Royal Road in the hope of catching a glimpse of her, she had no wish to satisfy their curiosity or see the acres of buildings and gardens that had once represented so much happiness to her. Once away from the center of the city, however, the noise of the populace died away, and she looped back the hangings, shielding her eyes against the glare of sun on the sand. The Overseer of Protocol approached her, bowing and indicating to her bearers the position behind the coffin that she was to occupy. As she was carried forward, Meritaten and Ankhesenpaaten detached themselves from their retinue. The litter halted. Nefertiti leaned out hesitantly, and her daughters knelt, both in tears, to embrace her. Briefly she held them close, and then, signaling her steward that she was ready to proceed, she withdrew, once more pulling the curtains closed. She had no wish to watch her husband’s body being dragged across the sand toward the barren, rocky gully he had selected for his tomb. Behind her she could hear Meritaten and Ankhesenpaaten sobbing and farther back the formal ululations of the mourners, but her own eyes were dry. She would find no more tears for Akhenaten. They had all been shed long ago.
Akhenaten had composed the burial rite himself, with all the joy in his god and appreciation for beauty of which he had been capable. The words Meryra intoned, the steps prescribed for the dancers, the music floating in the still air, all combined to impress upon those present both the grandeur and the pathos of the era that was now ended. Even the many enemies of Akhenaten among the courtiers forgot for a while that they were entombing a pharaoh who had led them all along the path of his delusion, and remembered only that he had been a man of honesty.
During the ceremonies Nefertiti sat under a canopy, turning occasionally to the surreptitious ministrations of her cosmetician, trying to hide the agitation of her hands. In spite of her determination to be still, she c
ould not prevent herself from glancing often to the place where the gully opened out into desert, and beyond that, unseen, the river. But the sand shimmered in the heat, the rock shook, and there was no sign of any messenger.
Smenkhara stepped forward to Open the Mouth. It was the most solemn moment of any funeral, and all eyes ought to have been fixed on the heir, but Nefertiti became increasingly aware that the stares of the company were directed at her. It is not so, it is my imagination, she tried to tell herself. But glancing over the crowd from under lowered lids, she found her father gazing at her with the sleepy regard that had always indicated speculative thought, and beside him, Horemheb’s eyes met hers coldly and steadily. Panic rose in her throat, acrid and dry, and she became frantic for wine. Tearing her gaze away, she looked to the ceremony just as Smenkhara handed the sacred knife to Meryra and turned, and he, too, seemed to fix her with an accusatory stare. Suddenly she felt as though every eye was on her, piercing her, hostile and condemning. Sweat began to stream down her face. Casting her eyes downward, she strove to ignore them. Pain struck under her breastbone, and she clutched at herself, suppressing a groan. I must show nothing, she told herself dimly through the panic. If I flee I will give them an excuse to despise me all the more. But even as the thought entered her mind, she found herself swaying to her feet. “What are you staring at, you sacrilegious peasants?” she shouted. “I am a queen! Avert your eyes!”
Meryra stopped singing, and the rite faltered. Now, indeed, she saw, every eye had turned to her in blank astonishment. Tears blurred her vision. Nefertiti felt a hand close firmly over her arm.
“Be quiet, Majesty,” her half sister’s voice breathed close to her ear. “Do you want them to think you are mad? Is this grief or illness?”
Nefertiti shrank from Mutnodjme’s touch, but then another hand gently touched her shoulder, and without opening her eyes Nefertiti knew it was Tey. “I want to go home,” she whispered into the shocked silence. Mutnodjme glanced at her husband. Horemheb nodded once and then curtly bade Meryra continue. Quickly Mutnodjme and Tey helped Nefertiti to her litter through the whispering throng. Out of the corner of her eye Nefertiti glimpsed Tutankhaten, resplendent in glinting jaspers and snowy linen, his black youth lock plaited and wound with blue ribbons, watching her with curiosity. Ankhesenpaaten took a step toward her mother, but Ay restrained her. Meritaten, face puckered with worry, remained at Smenkhara’s side.
The Twelfth Transforming Page 48
