The Twelfth Transforming
Page 58
“And you, my vain commander, should stop spending a fortune on face paint and accept your wrinkles! Please tell them to heat the water for my bath as you go out.”
He knew that he could trust her, had known it before he obliquely asked, but his heart suddenly lightened as he walked out between the sun-splashed pillars of his portico and into the freshness of the morning. They would go north and settle in the shabby, rambling house outside Memphis he had begun to build while he was still a captain. He would attend to his unfinished tomb at Saqqara, walk the canals beside his fields, argue tactics with his officers in the cool, sweet Memphis evenings, perhaps even rediscover some of the simple pleasures he had enjoyed before ambition robbed him of their joy. It would not be enough, he knew that. It had never been enough. But for the time being he would be content.
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The Keeper of the Royal Regalia knelt to receive the crook, flail, and scimitar and reverently kissed them before laying them carefully in their golden chest. Bent almost double, the cosmetician mounted the steps of the throne and, murmuring an apology, patted the sweat from the god’s face and gently retouched the black kohl around the eyes. The great hall slowly filled with richly clad courtiers, ambassadors, ministers, and governors, exhausted by the long morning of ceremonies. At the foot of the dais steps the contingent of Followers stood stiffly, their watchful eyes scanning the hall, and the heralds with white staffs in their hands waited patiently before calling all to prostrate themselves. The sandal bearer knelt patiently with the empty box on the tiles before him. To right and left of the throne the fanbearers held the quivering white symbols of Pharaoh’s inalienable right to every protection, and before it, resplendent in the leopard skin, a crabbed and aging Maya held incense over the throng.
Conversation in the hall was desultory, expectant, the painted eyes of the assembly glancing frequently at the dais. Horemheb let them wait. Turning, he smiled at Mutnodjme, stiff with jewels and gold-shot linen, the horned disk and plumes of the empress’s crown gleaming dully above her forehead. With one red-hennaed palm he cupped her chin, his rings glinting, and her wide lips parted in an answering smile. He had insisted that she receive the empress’s crown during the ceremony, not because the empire had as yet been won back, but as a sign to the privileged assembly that it would be. He dropped his hand and beckoned Nakht-Min. The fanbearer bent.
“Your Majesty desires?”
“Today is the time of beginnings,” Horemheb said. “Old ministers are dismissed, new ones appointed, nobles created, rewards bestowed. It is my divine will that you be relieved of the position of Fanbearer on the Right Hand, Nakht-Min.” Nakht-Min struggled to hide his shock. It was the most coveted task in Egypt and led inevitably to the position of Eyes and Ears of the King or the King’s Own Scribe. Horemheb watched his effort at self-control with an inward smile. “As your Majesty wishes,” the man managed. Horemheb laughed.
“I have another task for you, General. Did your four years under Pharaoh Osiris Ay cause you to forget what you really are?”
Nakht-Min’s face cleared. “No, indeed, Great Horus.”
“Good. I want you to take command of the army. Three divisions are massed in the Delta. It is time to push into southern Syria. That is the first directive of my reign. I am about to make young Rameses Vizier of the South, but I want him as your second-in-command for the present. The position of vizier is to keep him happy. He is a good soldier.” He brushed aside Nakht-Min’s thanks, his gaze going thoughtfully to the rear of the hall, where the curious foreign embassies were massed, here in Memphis to test the waters of a new administration. Horemheb noted the dark visage of the Khatti ambassador sent by their new ruler, the son of Suppiluliumas, Mursilis. He smiled to himself. Mursilis was about to receive more than polite greetings from Egypt. He spoke to Nakht-Min again. “Let your last task as fanbearer be to command my architects to design a triumphal pylon for me at Thebes. Nefertiti’s temple at Karnak shall be torn down to provide the building blocks. Akhenaten’s Karnak temple will be completely razed as well, and you may let it be known that any man needing stone for his monuments may use whatever he pleases from the dead city of Akhetaten without punishment.” He waved at the heralds, who immediately lifted their staffs and began to shout his titles, and the people went down on their faces.
Horemheb surveyed the worshipping crowd with quiet satisfaction. Thus I will wipe their memory from the face of the earth, he thought, and the gods will forgive me everything. Tomorrow we return to Malkatta, and a new day will dawn for Egypt. I will take the empress Tiye from the polluting atmosphere of her son and place her in the sanctity of her true husband’s tomb. And Akhenaten? Him I will burn, like the purifying fire of his Aten. My will is the law, for at last I have become a god. He felt Mutnodjme’s hand brush his own and came to himself. The people had risen and were waiting patiently. It was time to begin. Horemheb felt the Double Crown heavy on his brow. He cleared his throat.
“Maya, stand forth!” he commanded. “Hear my desire for the House of Amun….”
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
HalfTitle
Book One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Book Two
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Book Three
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30