by Overton, Max
"No...it says 'The justice of Re is...is powerful; chosen of Re; Re has made him...fashioned him; beloved of Amun'."
"Nice sentiments," Marc grumbled, "But does it help us at all?"
Dani rocked back on her heels and looked up at Daffyd. "They are names. Did you recognise any of them?"
Daffyd frowned as he lit up another of his hand-rolled cigarettes. "Re has fashioned him. We'd translate that as Re-messe--Ramses. Are we talking about Scarab's one-time consort Paramessu? He went on to become Ramses the First, didn't he?"
"What are you saying?" Bashir asked. "Is this the tomb of Ramses the First?"
"No, that's in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt," Dani said. "Besides, the full name of this king is Usermaatre Setepenre Ramses Meryamun--Ramses the Great."
"Shit," Marc breathed.
"What's going on down there?" Will called down the shaft. "What have you found?"
"The seal of Ramses the Great," Marc shouted back.
"It also says 'In the fifth year'," Dani added.
"That can't be right. Scarab would be over seventy years old. They didn't live that long way back then."
"Ramses did," Daffyd observed. "He lived into his nineties."
"What would Ramses be doing up in Syria anyway."
"The Battle of Kadesh was in his fifth regnal year, I believe," Dani said. She looked at the bricked up door. "We may find out more when we get inside. Can we get the seals off without damaging them?"
Three of the seals crumbled into dust as they chipped them away from the underlying plaster, including the one belonging to Ramses the Great. Bashir had photographed them all before they started but they still felt pangs of guilt at the way they were breaking into the chamber.
Daffyd expressed everyone's thoughts except Bashir's and possibly Nazim's when he said, "I feel more like a tomb robber than a scientist."
"Nonsense," Bashir retorted. "We are all acting under the auspices of the National History Ministry."
Tools were lowered down the shaft and Marc and Daffyd added muscle, extracting bricks and blocks of stone and sending them up the shaft in a rope cradle. Bashir wanted the whole doorway removed but Dani refused to let the destruction continue once a hole had been formed large enough to step through. She took a flashlight and shone it into the hole.
"What do you see, Dr Hanser?"
"Nothing much yet. There's too much dust in the air...hang on, I can see a bit of one wall. Pictures and writing."
"Any grave goods--furniture, offerings, shrines?" Marc asked.
"No. the chamber appears to be empty."
"So we still don't know whether this is a tomb."
Mahmoud lowered electrical cables and lights down to them and Dani carried them into the third chamber. Minister Bashir followed, with the others on his heels. They stopped and stared at the walls as the lights revealed ranks of tightly packed hieroglyphs interspersed with dozens of small pictures. Most of the paintings were of people, either singly or in groups, both Egyptian and foreign, but few of them bore any identification marks. An exception was a painting of a woman on the back wall. Head and shoulders only, the right side of the woman's face was hidden by a gold mask similar to the funeral mask of a dead king. Her right eye was a coloured stone, a polished gem, positively glowing golden brown. A cartouche below it identified the woman as Neferkheperu Khnumt-Atum Kheper, the throne name of Scarab.
Daffyd stared at the half-masked woman for several minutes before raising a note pad and obscuring the masked side of the face. "It's you, Dani," he said with a grin. "That means it must be Scarab." His smile faded as he lowered the pad again. "What damage must have been done by Ay's torturers to warrant such a cover up?"
"I wish you wouldn't keep saying it's me," Dani complained. "There's a vague resemblance, I admit, but nothing more."
"Yes, let us not get carried away by romanticism," Bashir agreed. "Dr Hanser, would you please scan the writing and determine where the account starts? Dr Rhys-Williams, please make yourself useful arranging the lights to best advantage. Dr Andrews, be so good as to organise chairs and tables to be lowered down to us. We will also need some basic supplies and writing materials, cameras, film...anything else you can think of." He drew a deep breath and coughed loudly. "Fresh air. Get Mahmoud to organise an air pump from the outside. Nazim, are you getting all this down? I want a full record of this event."
Everyone busied themselves and gradually a research station grew in the third chamber. The other members of the team, under Mahmoud's direction, brought chairs and tables up from the camp and organised an urn of coffee and mugs. The air pump was the most difficult task, but the technicians cobbled together something that would suffice until a proper pump could be brought in. These things were lowered into the shaft and the men and women followed, excitement battling with the sombre awe of being so far underground in a chamber that had remained closed for three thousand years or more. Once in the chamber they scattered, exclaiming over the pictures or chattering excitedly.
After a few minutes, Bashir tapped a teaspoon on a mug to attract everyone's attention. "Please take your seats and we will begin. Dr Hanser, you have found the start of the narrative?" Dani nodded. "Nazim, is the tape recorder set up? Notebooks ready? Thank you. Dr Hanser, if you would be so good as to start the translation..."
"Before she starts, Minister, I think we should lay down some ground rules," Daffyd interrupted. "This translation business puts a lot of strain on Dani. She should be allowed to stop for a rest whenever she wants and take a real break every hour or two. She's not a bloody machine."
"Well said Daffyd," Al growled. "You tell him."
Bashir shot a look of distaste at the younger man but addressed himself to the Welshman. "I am mindful of the strain to our good Dr Hanser. I propose that she has a break for a drink every half hour...or more often if she needs it...and a meal break of an hour every two hours unless she wants to carry on. In fact, we will rotate everyone at that point and go back to our usual shift arrangement." This last point was met with groans of disappointment.
Dani nodded. "Alright, you remember where we were? Scarab had survived the desert..."
"With the help of the Iunu gods," Doris chipped in.
"Just so. A caravan of traders took her north to the city of Zarw and the Khabiru people--her mother's people. News of the deaths of the kings had traveled fast and Scarab found herself a fugitive. Well, let me read what she says..."
* * * * *
"I arrived in the city of Zarw a month after the Gods delivered me from the desert and the clutches of my uncle Ay. I had thought to find Paramessu and my son Set but my planning had not progressed much beyond that. I think that in the back of my mind was the idea that my past life as a royal princess and sister of kings was over and I would be free to be an ordinary army wife and mother. Ay believed me dead and I could not imagine anyone in my mother's city of Zarw would apprise him of the truth. From what I knew of the public dispositions of Nebkheperure Tutankhamen, Tjaty Horemheb would no doubt grasp the throne in his iron hand and I looked to him to rule Kemet with due regard to Ma'at. The Gods had raised me to the kingship after Djeserkheperu Smenkhkare, but I lacked an army to back my claim. I did not want the throne anyway; I just wanted my son whom I had not seen for nearly six years. I also wanted the man whose wife I had once nearly become--but would he want a maimed woman? I was content to leave the Two Lands in the capable hands of Horemheb.
Very well, I will admit it. I was naďve to imagine that Ay, having once had a taste of power, would give it up on the eastern side of the tomb. I was misled by Horemheb's apparent control of the army. In fact, by the time I reached Zarw, Ay had all but secured the throne for himself..."
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* * *
Chapter One
The old man waited with an outward appearance of studied calm in the antechamber of the king's suite in the palace of Western Waset. He forced down his growing impatience, knowing that a false step could stil
l spell ruin. Within the king's chamber itself, he could hear the soft tones of the queen speaking almost conversationally to the king. She praised him and outlined her problem before pausing as if to listen to the king's reply. The old man found himself straining forward, listening. A prickle of superstitious dread brushed his sweat-dampened skin at the thought that the king might answer. He reminded himself that the king's body lay in the natron bath in the Royal House of the Dead, not in his bedroom with the queen.
The queen spoke again, a soft murmur followed by another pause, then a grief-stroked question, semi-audible. Time passed, silence now pervading the luxurious apartments. Through the open window, bird song, the distant lowing of cattle and the subdued murmurings of the palace staff were all that disturbed the peace. The old man shifted uncomfortably, wondering whether he should sit down and rest his aching joints but was concerned that he might appear weak if the queen came out and found him resting. He scuffed his feet irritably on the sand-gritted floor instead, earning a hooded glance of disapproval from the armed guards at the bedroom door. A slight movement by one wall caught his eye and he gestured to the servant standing there.
"Fetch a broom," the old man said. "This room is a disgrace."
The servant hesitated, glancing at the open doorway before bowing to the old man. He left the room, reappearing a few moments later with a bundle of dried rushes. The man proceeded to sweep the area of floor around the old man, brushing sand grains and dust to the edge of the room. He bowed again and resumed his stance by the wall.
The old man glared at the servant but decided not to pursue the matter further. Instead, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing his heart to stop racing. He ambled over to the window and, resting his hands on the broad sill, stared out at the palace gardens. The panorama of bushes, paved paths, ponds and fruit trees scarcely registered as he turned his mind once more to the coming interview with the queen.
So much hangs on so few words . He reviewed his carefully thought out and rehearsed arguments. At worst, I do not need the queen, but how much easier if she is amenable to my proposal ...
Someone in the shadows of the antechamber cleared his throat, interrupting the old man's thoughts. "My Lord Ay, the Queen will see you now."
The old man turned slowly, fighting the flutter in his chest. Lord Ay, he calls me. Not Tjaty . He recognised the Overseer of the King's Bedchamber. Ay straightened and walked through the doorway into the King's Bedchamber, ignoring the supercilious sneer on the Overseer's face.
Inside, the curtains were drawn against the noonday sun, the heavy linen casting hot, still shadows rather than cool shade. Ay felt sweat break out on his forehead and he cursed inwardly, knowing it would present a semblance of fear to the queen at a time when a show of strength was needed. He looked around the room, his gaze sliding over the ubiquitous servants, dismissing them, and found the queen.
How fragile she looks . For a moment, he contemplated calling her 'beloved granddaughter', but her pose--rigid and taut--shouted a warning to him. "Your majesty," Ay murmured instead, bowing deeply.
"Lord Ay," the queen responded, her voice as tight as her slim body. "You requested an audience? Please keep it short; I have much to attend to." Her gaze flicked sideways and Ay saw a life-size representation of the young King Nebkheperure standing in an alcove.
"Queen Ankhesenamen, it grieves me to disturb you at such a time, but affairs of state pay little attention to the passing of men...or gods."
"What is it you want, Lord Ay?"
"It is not what I want, but what Kemet needs."
"Do not prevaricate, Lord Ay. Speak clearly or go away."
So we come to it without the ceremony . "Queen Ankhesenamen, Kemet needs a strong leader in these troubled times. There are few men who have the requisite experience of governance and..."
"Kemet needs no man," Ankhesenamen replied coldly. "I will rule in place of my husband the king."
Ay almost smiled. "Indeed, your Majesty? That is not the Kemetu way. While your husband Nebkheperure was alive, you ruled with him, but only a king can rule the Two Lands alone. If you wish to remain on the throne of Kemet you must take a husband."
The queen's eyebrows rose. "You dare speak to me of what I must do? I am your queen. My husband is not yet buried and already you plot to take power for yourself. Beware, Lord Ay. I am not a woman to be mocked or threatened."
"My lady, such was not my intention. If my words have caused offence, I ask your pardon. All I seek to do is make sure Kemet is strong enough to face our enemies."
"What enemies? King Nebkheperure vanquished the Hittites and the southern rebels."
Ay shrugged. "My lady, if you do not know Kemet's enemies it is because you have not attended the Council. The men who govern Kemet are aware of these enemies."
"I repeat: what enemies?"
"The Hittites, my lady. Contrary to popular opinion, King Nebkheperure did not conquer them. He only destroyed one of their armies. The Kingdom of Shubbiluliuma is untouched and gathering together allies to strike a blow at what they perceive to be a defenceless land. They will take advantage of the death of our king."
Ankhesenamen's eyes flickered toward the statue of her husband. "We have the army," she murmured.
"Some of the army, my lady," Ay corrected. "The rebels under the pretender managed to inflict severe wounds on us before they were routed."
"It will be enough for Horemheb. He was always Kemet's foremost general."
"Horemheb is not here. He has disappeared into the wilds of Nubia, chasing the rebels. He may not return in time. That is why I say you must take a husband--a man strong enough and experienced enough to defend the Two Lands."
Ankhesenamen stared at the old man, her grandfather, for several minutes. "I can rule alone," she repeated.
Ay heard the hint of uncertainty in his granddaughter's voice and attacked again, sowing doubt. "Perhaps you could at that, my lady. You were always the favourite of the Heretic."
"Do not call him that," Ankhesenamen snapped. "He was your king and my father, even if he carried things to extremes."
"Your pardon, my lady. I meant only that being your father's daughter, some ability must flow in your veins. Perhaps you, like King Waenre Akhenaten, will have the wisdom to choose good counsellors."
"You mean yourself?"
"Can you think of anyone in the Kingdoms with more experience?"
"Horemheb is Tjaty of the North. Tuti...my husband planned to make him Tjaty of all Kemet."
Ay stiffened, fighting down his fury at this revelation. "Horemheb is an able general," he said slowly. "But he's just a fighting man. He doesn't have the strength to be Tjaty in troubled times."
"And you do, grandfather?"
Ay smiled inwardly at the admission of relationship. "You know I do. I all but ruled Kemet through the reigns of Waenre, Djeserkheperu and Nebkheperure--don't deny it, my lady, for I mean no disrespect. Each king saw the strength and wisdom in me and used me as a tool to govern our beloved Land. If the kings and I didn't see eye to eye at all times this was due to a lack of experience on their part, not to a lack of loyalty or ability on mine."
"There is a measure of truth in what you say," Ankhesenamen admitted. The queen sighed and her composure slipped. "I miss you, Tuti," she whispered. She turned and faced the statue of the boy-king in the alcove, holding out her arms in supplication but the wooden arms of the statue did not reach out to her. After a long time she sighed again and turned back to face her grandfather. "You want to be Tjaty of all Kemet again?"
"No, my lady."
Surprise made the queen look like a young girl. "You don't? Then why are you here?"
Ay was silent for a while and then said in a low voice, "Send the servants out."
"There is no need. They are my body servants."
"Even so," Ay insisted. "Some things no servant should hear."
"It is not proper that I should be unattended."
Ay chuckled. "I'm an old man
and family besides. What hurt can come to you? Be assured, my lady, I mean you no harm."
Ankhesenamen nodded and signed the servants to leave. She seated herself on the edge of the bed and waited for her grandfather to speak.
Ay paced for a few moments, gathering his arguments. "I ask your indulgence for a few moments, my lady. I must first speak of your ancestors..."
"Is a history lesson really so important, grandfather?"
"Yes, so pay attention. You come from an illustrious family that includes Menkheperre the conqueror and your own grandfather Nebmaetre, possibly the greatest king these Two Lands have ever seen. They are a family strong in kings...until your father."
"I am aware of this, grandfather. I had only sisters. What is your point?"
"Your father had only daughters, Djeserkheperu had no children, and our last king..."
"My husband..."
"...Nebkheperure had but two still-born daughters."
The queen locked her gaze with her grandfather. "The king had three daughters."
"I'm your grandfather, Ankhesenamen; I know the truth of it. You slept with your own father and the first dead girl was his."
The queen shrugged. "So?"
"So the seed of Nebmaetre has run dry. It's time to look further afield for the royal bull."
"I find this matter distasteful. My husband is not yet buried and already you seek to place a successor in my bed."
"I regret the need for haste but you know as well as I that you are the last of your great family. You must marry again and bear a son."
"And I am allowed no choice in my future husband?"
"Of course you have a choice, Ankhesenamen--as long as you make the right one. After all, your husband will become king of Kemet. We must choose wisely."
"I see. You will choose my husband for me, is that it?"
"Who better? You will agree that I am experienced in governing Kemet and am a member of the royal family."
"You are my grandfather," the queen agreed, "But you have no royal blood."
"There are two ways a man might become king--be born to it, or marry a royal princess."
