“You need to watch out for Aye,” Tut told his sister. “I don’t trust him. Neither should you. I think he wants to marry Mother and become pharaoh.”
Ankhesenpaaten smiled at this.
“He can’t do that, Tut. You’re the pharaoh.”
“Not if he marries the queen. Marriage into royal blood would allow Aye to take the throne.”
Tut paused to let that sink in, tilting his head to watch a duck extend its wings and lift them slightly upward as it glided in for a landing.
“I don’t like that,” Ankhesenpaaten said softly, “and I don’t like Aye. Not a bit. He’s angry, and he’s rude to Mother.”
“We also need to watch out for Meri-Re, the high priest,” warned Tut.
“Why him?”
“He’s afraid that when I become pharaoh I will no longer worship Aten.”
“He would lose all his power and wealth if that happened.”
“Right. You’re a smart girl. Almost too smart somehow.”
“And General Horemheb is a sneaky one. Keep an eye on him also.”
“I will be wary of them all,” said Tut. Then he did something he really hadn’t expected to do. He leaned in close and kissed Ankhe. And perhaps even more surprising, she didn’t protest.
Then, confident that they had avoided capture, the two children rose from their hiding place and sprinted toward the river, laughing. They were less afraid of the crocodiles lurking there than of the powerful men crawling about the palace.
Chapter 37
Thebes
1908
HOWARD CARTER had been summoned.
His old friend and Antiquities Service boss, Gaston Maspero, wanted to meet and discuss Carter’s “future.” In the four years since Carter had left his post, there hadn’t been much talk like that—more a hand-to-mouth existence that barely kept Carter’s dreams alive and often made him look foolish for having them.
So Gaston Maspero’s request for a meeting was more than welcome. It could be a lifesaver.
The distance from the Winter Palace Hotel to the Valley of the Kings was roughly five miles. If one stood on the great marble steps leading up to the hotel’s main lobby, it was possible to gaze across the Nile toward the distant cliffs that formed the backside of the valley. When there was no wind and the desert dust was not clouding the air, those cliffs seemed almost close enough to touch.
That’s the way Howard Carter felt every day of his exile. A man less passionate about Egyptology would never have debased himself the way Carter had, standing out on the streets to hawk his wares to tourists, no different from the hordes of carriage drivers, ferryboat captains, and beggars who lined the dirt road at the river’s edge.
Like them, he existed on the most meager of handouts. His serviceable watercolors would probably have been completely overlooked and ignored were he Egyptian rather than European.
To say that Howard Carter’s life had fallen into disarray would be an understatement. He’d become a shadowy version of himself: at once haughty and penniless.
To supplement his modest living as a watercolorist, he also sold antiquities on the black market, thus sinking to the level of the men he’d once prosecuted for tomb robbery.
Carter dressed well enough, even though his clothes were worn, and still had a taste for fine food and expensive hotels, but he’d become dependent on wealthy patrons to make his way. Adding insult to injury, his most beloved patrons of all, Lord and Lady Amherst, had fallen on difficult times. They’d been forced to sell Didlington Hall in 1907, and Lord Amherst was in poor health. At the age of thirty-four, Howard Carter had become little more than a self-educated sycophant.
Enter, thanks to Maspero, the inimitable Lord Carnarvon.
George Edward Stanhope Molyneux Herbert, better known as the Fifth Earl of Carnarvon—or, more simply, His Lordship—was a pale, thin man with a hound’s face pitted by smallpox. He smoked incessantly, despite damaged lungs; raced cars; owned horses; and otherwise reveled in living the life of a wealthy, self-absorbed bon vivant. Even the 1901 car crash that had almost killed him didn’t stop Carnarvon from spending his money recklessly and living a life of entitled leisure that no one deserved—at least not in Carter’s opinion.
His Lordship had first come to Egypt in December 1905, thinking that the warm weather and dry air might help him recuperate. That visit and subsequent other “tours” whet his appetite for all things Egyptian.
In winter he maintained a luxurious and spacious suite at the Winter Palace Hotel. Little by little, Carnarvon was transformed from a man consumed by the here and now into a man consumed by the past—the ancient past.
Chapter 38
Thebes
1908
NOW, LIKE MANY WEALTHY MEN who’d become smitten by Egypt and treasure hunting, Lord Carnarvon wanted to fund his own excavation.
The successes of Carnarvon and Theodore Davis were well known, and Carnarvon could easily see Davis’s yacht Bedouin moored across the street from his hotel. British acquaintances Robert Mond and the Marquis of Northampton also had minor concessions, and Carnarvon began to believe he would enjoy digging up an important bit of history. He thought it should be great fun indeed.
Unfortunately, his first season’s results weren’t promising. Or much fun. Arthur Weigall—who now held Carter’s former job as chief inspector for Upper Egypt—had dismissed Carnarvon for the rank amateur that he was. He assigned Carnarvon to a rubbish heap known as Sheikh abd el-Qurna, with predictably dismal results.
The sole find during that first six-week season was a mummifiedcat contained inside a wooden cat coffin.
Carnarvon, while disappointed, actually treasured the discovery. It was his first, after all. Egyptology was now officially in his blood.
The only problem, it seemed, was Carnarvon. Rather than hire an experienced professional, he led the digs himself. Each day he would sit inside a screened box that kept away flies, and smoke cigarette after cigarette, as his men, and not a top-notch crew, worked in the heat and dust.
What Carnarvon needed—he was told repeatedly—was a seasoned professional to guide his digs.
And Howard Carter needed a wealthy patron with a concession to get him back in the game.
Between seasons, Carnarvon wrote Weigall from England, asking for “a learned man, as I have not time to learn up all the requisite data.”
The common thread in all of this was Maspero, who had arranged Carnarvon’s concession in the first place.
So it was that Carter was summoned to the Winter Palace to stand before Carnarvon and Maspero to discuss the possibility of once again leading a full-scale excavation. His clothes were nearing the point of no return, and his ever-present portfolio was tucked under his arm, as if he had been called to sketch the moment, which, he believed, was a depressing possibility.
Did Carter want back in the game? he was asked.
The disgraced Egyptologist, thrilled that fate was giving him a second chance, hastily answered yes.
He even managed to keep his famous arrogance and temper in check—for the first meeting anyway.
Chapter 39
Amarna
1333 BC
“WHAT’S WRONG, MOTHER?” asked Tut.
The handsome little boy stood beside Nefertiti in a garden surrounded by fig trees and date palms and a rich green carpet of grass. His mother sat in the shade of a small palmetto. Her beautiful face was a tightly clenched mask. They both knew that she was unwell, and yet she pretended that nothing of the sort was true.
To be eight and faced with the prospect of losing his mother, so soon after losing his father, was something that no child could be prepared for.
But Tut was no ordinary child—he had royal blood—he was divine.
So he joined his mother on the small settee. He watched as she slowly leaned back and tried to relax, then flinched in pain as her skin came in contact with the hard chair.
“I’m dying, Tut, and I need to ask you to do something
that you might think odd.”
“Don’t say that, Mother. You’re not dying.”
“I am. Either I am being poisoned—or there is a sickness inside my body that Aten does not wish to remove. I have ordered my servants to hasten their preparations of my burial chamber, because there may not be much time for me.”
Nefertiti closed her eyes as pain shot through her body. Tut placed his hand on top of hers, but did so gently, so as not to hurt her.
This small act of kindness and compassion made Nefertiti smile. “You will be a great pharaoh. I am sure of it.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
He paused, reluctant to say what was on his mind.
“What is it?” Nefertiti asked.
“Do you promise not to be angry?”
She let a moment pass as she weighed her answer. “I promise. Now ask your question. You must always speak your mind, Tut.”
“Did Aye do this to you? I see the way he looks at you. It’s hard to tell whether he loves you or hates you.”
“I think it’s a little of both. But no, I do not fear Aye—though you should. You are just a boy and need to be protected from powerful, unscrupulous men who might want to see you harmed.”
“Do you think he wants to be pharaoh?”
“Yes, Tut, I do. And he is not the only man with a dream of ruling Egypt.”
“But he is a commoner.”
“So are you, Tut. Remember, your natural mother was of common birth. You are only half royal. Your sister is the only child in this palace who is full-blooded royalty. This is why I have asked you to come see me.”
“What do you mean? What are you saying, Mother?”
“Ankhesenpaaten cannot reign as pharaoh because she is a woman. But for you to rule as pharaoh, and to produce an heir who ensures the succession of our royal blood, you must blend your blood with that of a woman who is fully royal. Do you understand?”
“But Ankhesenpaaten is the only such person.”
“That’s right, Tut.” Nefertiti flinched once again from the pain. “Ankhe is the only one.”
“So you’re saying that…”
His voice trailed off in confusion, so Nefertiti finished the sentence for him.
“You must marry your sister.”
Chapter 40
Luxor
1909
HOWARD CARTER was once again in the world that he loved more than anything else. A little older perhaps, a few belt holes thinner, but he was definitely back in the game.
As the sun rose over the glorious Nile, he gazed out across a site at a small army of workers, just as he had so many times before. True, he was digging in what many called the “unfashionable district” of the Theban necropolis, where, at best, he could hope to find the tombs of nobles and wealthy businessmen instead of pharaohs. But after years of living hand to mouth, Carter didn’t mind at all.
Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon in the Valley of the Kings. Theirs was one of history’s most successful partnerships.
It was good to have a job. So Carter lit a cigarette and gave the order for his men to start digging.
Lord Carnarvon stood at his side, dressed smartly in a suit and skimmer.
Their relationship would clearly be different than the ones Carter had enjoyed with Lord Amherst and even Theodore Davis. The old days of Carter being stubborn to make a point were over. He was a hired man now and would not be treated as a member of the family.
But he didn’t much care. He had plans in his head, plans to bring professionalism and accountability to Carnarvon’s ragtag style of digging. Wealthy patrons were hard to come by. With Carter’s expertise and Carnarvon’s money, there was a chance they might actually find something important.
And someday, if this all worked out, they would move into the Valley of the Kings and do some real digging, for real treasure.
Chapter 41
Amarna
1330 BC
THERE HAD BEEN no public ceremony and no special words from the high priests to mark the moment of their marriage union.
Ankhesenpaaten had simply moved her belongings to Tut’s side of the palace, where their father had once laid his head.
That had been three years ago. They had slept in separate rooms since then but had also become closer friends. Now, on the day they had put Nefertiti in her tomb, Tut would rule alone.
Ankhesenpaaten fumbled with her gauzy white gown as she and Tut prepared to share a bed for the first time. He wasn’t yet a teenager, like his sister and bride, who was a few years older, but Tut had begun to physically develop into a man, and this wasn’t lost on his wife.
It was time they produced an heir—or at least, given their ages, began practicing.
Tut untied the cumbersome, false pharaoh beard from around his head and laid it on a bedside table. Nefertiti had coached them both, in individual discussions, and Tut thought he had a good understanding of how it all worked. But he had never visited a harem, as the royal scribe Aye seemed to do each afternoon after lunch, and what was about to transpire was unnatural and awkward to him.
Ankhesenpaaten turned her back discreetly as she slipped her dress off her shoulders. Tut watched the fabric drop down past her narrow hips and land silently on the floor.
Ankhesenpaaten covered her budding breasts with one hand as she turned to pull back the bedcovers, then slid between the warm sheets. He could smell the perfumed oils she used on her body and hair.
“Now you, Pharaoh.”
Tut felt butterflies in his stomach and was unnerved at the thought of shedding his clothes right there with Ankhe in the room, especially since his own longings were on full display.
“Did you ever feast as much as today?” he asked somewhat randomly, referring to the whirlwind of revelry surrounding Nefertiti’s funeral. All the priests of Aten had feted her. Aye had been there too, and Tut had noticed that the royal vizier drank quite heavily while huddling in the corner with Tut’s generals.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much food in my life,” Ankhesenpaaten agreed.
“I wish Mother could have been there.”
“Now you can make your claim to the throne. No one can deny you.”
“Yes,” Tut said softly, feeling for the first time the crushing weight of being the pharaoh of all of Egypt. It pressed down on him like a block of limestone.
“We are alone, Tut,” Ankhesenpaaten whispered, realizing a different sort of burden. “Just the two of us in this difficult and complicated world. Not a parent to guide us. Just us.”
“It’s scary when you say it like that.”
“Yes. But Tut, let’s promise that we will always look out for each other and protect each other from those who would do us harm.”
“I promise, Ankhesenpaaten. I will never let anyone harm you.”
“I promise too.”
The bedroom was still then, uncomfortably so. The warm desert air flowed in through the open window, and Tut could smell the faint and wonderfully familiar musk of the Nile.
Ankhesenpaaten took a deep breath, and then she pulled back the sheets, unafraid to show herself to her husband.
In their many years together, Tut had never seen his half sister naked, and now he gasped at the realization that she was exceptionally shapely and beautiful.
“Take off your kilt, Tut,” she said.
The pharaoh did as he was told. And he was beautiful too.
Chapter 42
Thebes
1326 BC
THE NIGHTS OF PASSION were but a bittersweet memory to Ankhesenpaaten now. Still the young queen had never been more excited—or frightened.
“I’m late,” she whispered, rolling over in bed and propping her chin on Tut’s chest. She could feel her breasts pressing against his ribs, as she reached down to touch between his legs.
“How often have I heard that?” Tut replied, doing his best to sound pharaoh-like, instead of utterly smitten.
“Tut,” Ankhesenpaaten whispered, mountin
g him. “I am three months late. We are going to have a baby. I’m certain of it. So tonight, let’s celebrate.”
Tut gazed up at her and supported her body by clasping her breasts. She leaned forward and began rocking slowly, all the while caressing his face with her hands.
“Think of a name,” she said softly, closing her eyes as pleasure coursed through her body.
“Nefertiti,” he said.
“What if it’s a boy?”
“Nefertiti.” Tut laughed.
“What about Tuthmosis? Or Amenhotep? Those are royal names.”
Ankhesenpaaten moaned then; names no longer seemed important to her.
She was usually very quiet in bed, but on that morning she was sure she woke all of Thebes as she climaxed. The sensation seemed to go on and on, a wave of pleasure that rolled through her once-barren body just as surely as the Nile flowed through Egypt’s desert sands.
She looked down at Tut and watched his shoulders tense as ecstasy contorted his beautiful face. Then he let out a most unpharaoh-like cry.
“We are going to have a baby,” repeated Ankhe-senpaaten.
Chapter 43
Tut’s Palace
1326 BC
THAT HAD BEEN five months ago.
Now, perched atop a royal birthing stool, Ankhesenpaaten clenched her abdominal muscles and pushed one last time—at least she prayed this was the last time. As Tut stood by her side, clasping Ankhe’s hand, their child finally joined them, delivered into the waiting hands of the royal physician.
It was stillborn.
The poor baby was obviously deformed, with one shoulder much higher than the other and a spine curved sideways, and just as obviously dead.
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