The Amarnan Kings, Book 3: Scarab - Tutankhamen

by Overton, Max

  The leg bone snapped audibly and Tutankhamen toppled back with a loud scream of agony, but before he fell, his older brother had collapsed to the ground, blood pumping from his gaping chest wound.

  Scarab cried out in agony and ran toward the two bodies on the ground. She fell to her knees and stared aghast at the ruin of her brother's chest, knowing he was dead, though his fingers twitched and air bubbled hoarsely through the blood welling into the dry ground. "What do I do?" she muttered. "I need Nebhotep." She raised her head and screamed the physician's name toward the Nubian army which was now on its feet, ululating its grief. Two men detached from the mass of grieving warriors and rushed forward.

  Menkure cradled his king's head, tears streaming down his face. "Do something, Nebhotep," he sobbed. Scarab added her grief and a silent plea, but Nebhotep shook his head.

  "He is beyond my help." The physician wiped the sweat from the king's grimacing face, ignoring the blood that spattered them all. "Make your peace with the gods, Djeserkheperu Smenkhkare, most noble of kings."

  Smenkhkare's eyes fluttered open and his hands plucked not at his gaping wounds but at the shallow cut across his chest. "It burns," he whispered. He focused his eyes and looked at Menkure, then at Scarab. "My...my brother...won. Th...the kingdom is...his. The gods...have turned away..." Smenkhkare's breath caught in his throat, he stiffened and his eyes rolled up in his head.

  "The king is dead," Nebhotep said softly.

  For a long instant, Menkure remained kneeling beside the body of his king and friend. Then he raised his head and howled his grief, drowning out the quiet sobs from Scarab as she helped Nebhotep compose the body of her beloved brother. After a few moments, the physician took Scarab's arm and squeezed hard, digging his fingers in. Scarab yelped and stared at Nebhotep, then at where his finger was pointing.

  "What?" She gulped and wiped at her nose and eyes with her other hand.

  "The edges of the sword cut," Nebhotep said. He wiped the edge of his robe along the wound, clearing the blood away. "It is inflamed--almost as if burned."

  "He...he said it burned."

  "There was poison on that blade."

  "Are you sure?"

  "No."

  Menkure ceased his cries of grief and stared at the physician. "Poison?" he whispered.

  "Possibly."

  Menkure leaped to his feet and started across to where Ay knelt beside the groaning Tutankhamen. Scarab ran after him and took him by the arm. He did not even notice and pushed Ay hard, the old man falling back.

  "Did you poison him?" Menkure screamed.

  "What are you talking about?" Ay asked calmly.

  "Or is it this beardless boy?" He nudged Tutankhamen with his sandaled foot and the young king screamed as the ends of the bones ground together. "Were they your weapons, boy?"

  "They...they were Ay's, but they are not poisoned," the young king whimpered. He looked over to his uncle. "Are they?"

  "Of course not," Ay replied disdainfully. "I may be committed to the safety of Kemet, but not even I would stoop that low."

  "You lie!" Menkure screamed. He drew his own sword and strode forward.

  "No." Scarab pulled back on Menkure's arm. "Even Nebhotep could not be sure. These men are under safe conduct. Their persons are sacred to the gods."

  Menkure ground his teeth but allowed himself to be persuaded. "Very well, but I will find out the truth of this matter and if you are guilty, I will hunt you down, Tjaty Ay, and destroy you."

  Ay got to his feet and dusted himself off. "Where is the physician? Let him attend to the king." The use of the royal title caught at Scarab's heart and she sobbed again, beckoning to Nebhotep.

  The physician examined the Tutankhamen's leg and cleaned it as best he could. "The wound must be dressed with linen soaked in honey and changed every two hours," he said to Ay. "Have the leg immobilised and it will mend straight."

  "Help me get him in the chariot."

  Menkure would not assist Ay and stalked back to sit grieving beside the body of Smenkhkare. Scarab and Nebhotep helped the old man carry Tutankhamen to the chariot and lay him propped up on the wicker base. Ay took the reins and without a backward glance or expression of thanks, started the chariot back toward the city.

  Scarab watched them go, then turned back to where her brother's body lay, feeling her heart break within her. The Nubians had crowded in, wailing and gossiping, making signs against the evil eye. Khu edged close to Scarab but kept silent, respecting her grief, though he put a strong arm around her shoulder, expecting nothing, just offering comfort if it was wanted. She leant her head on his shoulder and cried softly, watching Menkure's outpouring of grief.

  The king's friend looked up, wild-eyed, gazing around at the sorrowing faces. "We will give Djeser a funeral such as the Land of Kemet has never seen. We will bury him in a tomb fit for gods and I will sacrifice Ay and Tutankhamen as a blood offering. Let his body be taken to the camp so that every man can walk by and say farewell."

  "It is the grief talking," Nebhotep said calmly. "Never fear, he will regain control of his mind in a day or two."

  Khu was concentrating hard. "It will take two days, even if they continue through the night."

  Scarab raised her head and looked at the lad. "What will?"

  "The viewing. I...I'm sorry Scarab but in this heat...the body..."

  Scarab drew a shuddering breath. "You're right, Khu. Thank you for thinking of it." She stepped out of the comfort of his arm and slipped between the tribesmen to Menkure's side. "My lord Menkure, if we are to honour my brother as a king of Kemet, we must get him to the embalmers."

  Menkure's eyes slid past Scarab's face and she turned her head, following his gaze. Something was happening on the walls of Waset, flags and pennants waving and a distant sound of cheering reached them as the afternoon wind gusted. Then a trumpet sounded, distant but clear, and as if in answer a great shout that though far away, stilled every voice in Nubian army. Around the walls of Waset marched a body of men, the insignias of the Heru and Re legions conspicuous in the van.

  "Horemheb," Menkure snarled. "Lady Beketaten, guard the king. Get him to a place of safety." He turned and pushed through the milling crowd of tribesmen, yelling for his captains and troop commanders.

  Scarab looked at Khu and Nebhotep. "Come, help me." As the tribesmen ran to form up in battle order, the three of them picked up the body of the anointed king of Kemet, Lord of the two Lands, the Living Manifestation of Re, Holy of Forms, the Vigorous Soul of Re, Ankhkheperure Djeserkheperu Smenkhkare, and carried him across the plains of Waset to safety even as his army and that of Lord Horemheb joined in battle beneath the walls of the City of Amun.

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  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Three days passed and the stench of rotting bodies grew by the hour in the streets, houses and temples of Waset. Swarms of flies descended on the plains and in the sultry heat rapidly engendered fresh cohorts to plague the citizens of Amun's city. The bodies lay bloated and writhing as countless maggots feasted. Wheeling in the sky above, riding the currents of heated air, came vultures and kites, following the scent of battle, flocking in their hundreds. When darkness fell, jackals and dogs from the city gorged, filling their stomachs with meat and filling the air with their squabbling. As the stench and the noisome by-products of putrefaction and scavenging grew, Ay, newly reinstated as Tjaty of Ta Shemau, organised the citizenry in a clean-up operation. Thousands of bodies, most of them Nubian, lay scattered in windrows across the plain and in a line that marked the retreat of Menkure's force.

  Hastily gathered together in the face of Horemheb's attack, Menkure had thrown his tribesmen at the disciplined soldiers of the Heru and Re legions, hoping to overwhelm them by sheer force of numbers. Hundreds died as the formations so carefully nurtured over the past months and years disintegrated, reduced to a rabble of screaming spearmen. Menkure, and a handful of his officers strove to maintain discipline, leading by examp
le in the forefront of battle, but the death of their king had demoralised them and sapped their determination. When that first night intervened, the Nubian army withdrew to lick its wounds and Menkure knew the battle was lost. He still outnumbered the enemy, but his men had lost the will to fight. Already, the units on the outskirts of the huge encampment were streaming away to the south, deserting by the hundred, and unless drastic measures were taken, Menkure knew he would be bled dry. He therefore decided to cut his losses and retreat back the way they had come, hoping to maintain the bulk of his army intact. No man could tell the future and he fully intended to return one day and set himself on the throne of Kemet. After all, Smenkhkare had named him his heir. Thus the Nubian army slipped away in the night, hurrying south to the ford at Ta-senet .

  When Horemheb found them gone at first light, he sent word to the king requesting permission to pursue and destroy the enemy. Ay, forging the king's seal, sent instructions that the enemy was to be destroyed or harried beyond the borders of Kemet and its provinces. Horemheb was not to return without the heads of Menkure and the principal leaders of the rebellion, including the former King's Councilors Beketaten, Nebhotep and Khu. His comment, heard only by his steward Mentopher, as he sealed the message was, "That will keep him safely out of the way until the succession is secure."

  That first afternoon, when the victorious Tutankhamen had returned, grievously wounded but jubilant, the people of Waset turned out, crowding the streets around the palace and the Great Temple of Amun, offering up prayers for the king and cheering him wildly whenever he, supported by servants and with his Tjaty by his side, appeared at a window or balcony to wave to the crowd. Tutankhamen immediately sent for his wife and queen, Ankhesenamen, and then, as he had said he would, rescinded the orders concerning Ay, and created other documents reinstating him as Tjaty. Ay, when the king retired with a cup of poppy in wine, spent long hours carefully drawing up other documents in his neat scribe's hand--documents that would be needed very soon, but documents that must wait until the king was too far gone to know what he was putting his seal to.

  The wound on the king's leg had turned bad the next day and at times the stink from the pus-filled wound threatened to overwhelm the sweet-smelling perfumes and incense spread throughout the king's chambers to cover the stench from the putrefying bodies outside the city. Nebhotep's honey-soaked bandages had made way for other more noxious remedies. The honey had done nothing for the pain and, subtly encouraged by Ay, new doctors had been called in, and priests to fill the close air of the king's bedchamber with droning prayers. Poppy juice, spiking the wine, had controlled the pain and reduced Tutankhamen to a mumbling cripple, while Ay set about ensuring that no man, not even the king, would be able to curtail his power again.

  Over the years, most of the positions of authority within Waset had been gradually taken over by Ay's friends and those who could demonstrate a ruthless but subservient nature. Psenamy commanded the remnants of the Amun legion in the absence of Nakhtmin, and ability was replaced by servility among the senior officers. Usermontju still led the Medjay but more of the rank and file members now sprung from the jails and the rougher areas of the waterfront, often causing more trouble than they curbed. The mayors of both East and West Waset were his creatures, as were a goodly proportion of the scribes, priests and court officials. Little happened within the city without Ay being aware of it, and a portion of every transaction and sale found its way ostensibly into the king's coffers. The Tjaty's control of the treasury of Ta Shemau resulted in some creative bookkeeping, and the wealth of the southern Kingdom flowed to Ay and his followers.

  Nakhtmin and the remnants of the Amun legion arrived on the third day, having escaped the confines of Ta-senet and the nominal guard left behind by Smenkhkare. They had followed the West Road but to their surprise had found no trace of the passage of a large army for many miles. At a small side valley dominated by a mound of rubble called Lion Rock, they found what they were looking for at last, the beaten trampled trail of thousands of men. Villagers reported the presence of legionnaires, but no Nubians, and Nakhtmin hurried his men forward, knowing that Waset was not being defended by Horemheb. Then as his small force crossed the Great River to the city, the waters of Iteru started to turn a murky brown and the stink of blood assailed their nostrils. Several men cried out in superstitious fear but Nakhtmin pointed to bodies drifting in the current.

  "There has been a bloody battle at the ford of Ta-senet . What you see is a great slaughter as the enemies of our king meet their destiny."

  General Nakhtmin sent his soldiers off to the barracks and hurried to the palace to see Ay, his mind churning with questions even as his stomach roiled in the sickening miasma from the battle field. He bowed before the Tjaty and waited until the last servant had left the room. He quickly gave a report of his activities and what he had seen, bursting with curiosity. His father had listened without saying a word and nodded at the end. He waited for his father to say something but at last could no longer contain himself.

  "What has happened, father?" Nakhtmin asked. "I have heard so many conflicting rumours since I came through the city gates. Smenkhkare's army has been defeated, I can see, but what of the rebel? Is he really dead? And Tutankhamen--how is it that you are not under arrest? Or do you have him in captivity?"

  Ay laughed delightedly. "Smenkhkare is dead. I saw him die. As for the boy, he still lives but I think not for long."

  "You must be very certain of your position if you contemplate the king's death."

  "For shame, son." Ay grinned and embraced Nakhtmin. "Since his arrival, the king has confirmed me as Tjaty and sent Horemheb in pursuit of the shattered rebel army. Waset is as good as mine for now, and I expect by the time our noble general returns I will be in an unassailable position."

  "Then you control Tutankhamen? I heard he was wounded."

  "Shall we say I am solicitously caring for our beloved king while he recovers from his injuries?"

  "He is not seriously hurt then? Rumours in the city run from a scratch to death."

  "Tutankhamen killed Smenkhkare but received a wound to his left knee, breaking the bone. He is being cared for by the best physicians and prayers are being offered up to the gods day and night."

  "And?"

  "And what? He will either live or he will die. That is in the hands of the gods. Meantime, he conducts the business of state through his faithful Tjaty."

  "What will happen when Horemheb returns? He will turn the king's mind against you once more."

  Ay looked away, apparently falling into a reverie for several minutes. "Yes," he mused. "With luck Horemheb will be absent for some time. I made sure his mission was all-encompassing. Menkure is a stubborn man and I am sure he will cling to life for as long as he can, so maybe I'll get my wish." He brightened and smiled at his adoptive son. "I have asked the gods for eighty days. That should be enough."

  Nakhtmin frowned. "Eighty?"

  "A king cannot be crowned until the former one is buried, and that cannot take place until seventy days after his death. Three of the eighty days have passed and I fear the king does not have long to live," Ay said blandly.

  "I...I do not know what to say."

  "Then say nothing." Ay snapped. He passed a hand over his forehead and shook his head. "I am sorry, my son, I have been under a lot of pressure, having to rule so much and organise so much these last few days. I am truly happy to have you back. I feared for you, fighting against Smenkhkare's army with so few men."

  Nakhtmin shrugged. "It was an interesting experience."

  "Did you see the king's sister, Beketaten?"

  "Yes, she came to question me."

  "A beautiful woman," Ay said, "But willful and ultimately selfish. She meddles in affairs that are best left to her betters."

  Nakhtmin nodded. "She even fought a Nubian chief for mastery of his tribe and killed him, I am told. She is dangerous as well as beautiful."

  "All the more reason then to find her." />
  Nakhtmin raised his eyebrows. "She is in Waset?"

  "I believe so. Together with that farm lad that dotes on her and the physician Nebhotep. As the armies met on the first day, she was seen carrying the body of Smenkhkare from the field. To what purpose?"

  "To bury him?"

  "Of course to bury him, but where? How? She believes him to be a king, so she will seek to bury him like one. That means a tomb, embalming, a treasury, and priests. Where is she going to find that? Only in Waset."

  "Or possibly one of the nearby towns."

  "Possible, though I think Waset more likely. I want you to take your legion, the Medjay, anyone you need and scour the city. Find her, my son. Find her or Smenkhkare's body."

  "And then?"

  Ay's lips curled, baring his pitted and broken teeth in a vicious snarl. "Then I will have my revenge. I will take her beloved brother's body and destroy it in front of her, so he can never hope for resurrection. As for her...the beautiful bitch Beketaten..."

  "You will kill her too?"

  "No, that would be too merciful. She will live with the memory of her brother's annihilation and the destruction of her own beauty. I will give her a face that will make men turn from her in disgust, women cry in pity and children run screaming."

  Nakhtmin shuddered. "What of the farm lad and the physician?"

  "What do I care? Kill them."

  Nakhtmin bowed to his father's will and left to execute his commands. He pulled together a great band of soldiers and Medjay, starting a house to house search throughout the city. Every known associate from the princess's early life was rounded up and questioned, and large rewards were posted for any information that led to the capture of any one of the three fugitives. While these searches were under way, Nakhtmin took a select band of men with him and visited the various Houses of the Dead within the city.