Shiri (36 page)

The old man stood above her, pain and sadness etched in his face. He shook his head slowly, “I … I can’t Shiri. I can’t.”

Shiri barely heard him, all she could see was her love, her heart, wrecked and broken in her hands. “Don’t leave me…” she willed his eyes to open and for a moment saw them flicker, briefly felt his fingers squeezed hers anew. Weak so weak, but she felt it all the same. “Shiri,” he said, “Shiri,” it was quieter than a flake of snow, “Promise … me … promise … don’t die … don’t die a slave … don’t die in this land, go home, Shiri … go home.”

She closed her eyes and squeezed his fingers, clo
sed her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t … I can’t promise that … please … please … don’t go,” Again she felt him squeeze, but this time those sky blue eyes did not open. His other hand moved an inch, two inches, three; the effort of the movement seemingly beyond all measure, as his fingers quested feebly inside his robes. Her eyes followed them, looked to where he’d parted his robes just a little, saw the crumbled piece of rag paper. His head lolled to the side, his hand flopped down, “Promise me,” he said, “promise.”

“I promise, Josef … I promise.”

His lips trembled with the faintest outward puff of breath and he was gone, his fingers limp in hers, “Josef?” she whispered, “Josef?” She shook him ever so gently, “Josef?” She looked to the old bowyer in desperation, “Solon! Do something! Save him!” She shook her prince harder now, almost roughly, his head rocked about with the movement, his eyes stayed closed. She shook him even more violently, “Josef! Josef wake up! Josef, Josef … don’t leave me … please don’t leave me.”

Solon stood still as a statue, pale as a ghost. He pla
ced a soft hand on her shoulder. “We … we have to go,” he said quietly, “Your daughter … and the babe, little Tuthmosis … they’ll not suffer any son of Tiye to live. We have to get there before them.”

Her answer was loud heaving sobs. Horrible guttural noises that barely sounded human. She raised her head, her face a salty mess of her tears and his blood, “Solon … Save him … Save him,” she hugged her Prince of Shepherds, kissed his mouth and refused to let him go. She buried her head into his chest, “Josef … Josef … I love you ... come back to me please … please Josef … I love you … I love you.”

XVIII

The fog was thick upon the river, wet and cold as her tears. In the distance the red god was rising. He turned the whole eastern horizon the colour of her one and only’s blood. Above her head three faint stars still lingered in the pale dawn sky.
The
Shepherd of Anu – he is with him now.
Nothing seemed to make sense.
Where are we? How long had it been?
Hours and days were lost and merged in one long nightmare, one cold and endless pain. She closed her eyes and hoped to dream.

At least in dreams she could find him. At least in sleep she could see that smile,
perhaps in death I could touch his lips.
The twice cursed blade could do the job. She could feel it in her fingers still. She made to take it to her breast again but then she realised it was not there, her fingers clung to naught but air.
The old man stopped me.
“Tiye,” he’d said, “Tiye. We must save her. We must save the boy. Save them for him, Shiri. Save them for Josef.”

The twice cursed blade was gone. She’d drowned her in the river. The old man had led her somewhere then. She couldn’t remember where, but now they were on that river. A city was at their backs, a great and massive city, walls and towers still wreathed in snakes of fog. They showed no lights as they stole past it, made no sound but the faintest splash of oar. The craft was small, not twice the size of her mistress’s bed. Of rope and papyrus made, a fishing
felucca not meant for such a journey, but it had made it all the same. “Is this the place?” she heard him say, “Shiri, is this the place?”

She looked at him, her eyes not really s
eeing. “He loved me, Solon.”

She felt his hand on hers.
“Shiri please, we have no time, Smenkaure’s vessel docked late last night.”

She turned her head toward the shore
– thick with reeds and little else, “No, I … don’t think so … they must be further.”

Solon cursed
and made to raise the sail anew. “Wait,” she said. She rubbed her eyes. She felt so numb, she could not think, could not see.
But I must
. She leaned forward, squinted, pointed to a bend in the river. The reeds had been parted there. Through clinging mists a low marble wall emerged from shadows, and then a statue, a canal, the first of many sculpted pools, “The Water Gardens,” she said slowly, “she’ll be there at first light to bathe.”

Solon angled them in to shore.
“We must hurry.”

Tiye shrugged out of her thin turquoise sheath and dipped a toe into the water. She shivered. It was cold. She offered Amaris a disappointed expression, “They must have forgotten to light the fires.”

Her bodyslave carried a woven papyrus basket, a precious bundle inside. The Habiru smiled, “I’ll have them set the braziers of
Horus
aflame and see that they open the sluice gates.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Amaris,
sometimes the cold is…” The slave had already turned.

“Oh, at least leave Tuthmosis here, then. I’ll not have you carrying him everywhere.”

The slave nodded and placed the basket carefully by her mistress’s side. Tiye raised her voice as she departed, “Oh and Amaris, perhaps once the gates are opened you might join me?”

A
maris grinned over her shoulder. “Well, perhaps just to test if the waters are warm enough, m’lady.” Tiye laughed, half suspecting that’s what she’d had in mind all along, the Habiru had long since fallen in love with the heated pools and hidden track ways of the vast royal playground.

Tiye sat back by the water’s edge, alone with her son and her thoughts. She heard the sluice gates open and saw the first ripples as hot, almost steaming waters ran down a winding canal and into her pool. She dipped her toes back into the water and smiled; they were already beginning to grow warmer.

She glanced idly towards the far distant western bank of the sacred river. A fishing boat was mid-stream but seemed to be turning towards the shore. She furrowed her brow as she watched it drawing ever nearer.
They should know none are allowed to venture this close to the gardens.
Even so, it continued struggling closer.
Perhaps it’s lost.
The boat was tiny and made hard work of fighting the current. She could make out two dim figures aboard now; the aged fisherman himself, and his daughter or young wife. Tiye took the basket in hand and pointed towards the boat. Tuthmosis giggled and kicked his legs in excited fashion.

Amaris came running. She sent a startled Ibis flapping wildly into the air. The bird disappeared high in the morning mists, its shrill complaints carrying far. “M’lady you are summoned to the palace at once!” The slave looked panicked. She glanced over her shoulder and then to the baby. “Something’s … something’s w
rong…”

“Tell my husband I’ll be along after I’ve bathed.”

Amaris came closer, taking her by the arm. She shook her head. “No m’lady you … don’t understand! Smenkaure … he’s coming … and his face!” She bent over holding her hands in front of her mouth as if struggling to control her breathing, “M’lady … his face … it’s … it’s gone!”

Tiye couldn’t help but laugh.
“What? Amaris I think you need to lay off the
Shedeh,
it’s headier stuff than our Memphite brew.”

The slave looked up.
“He’s coming for you! He’s coming for your baby. They … they mean to put him to the sword!”

The Queen’s smile faded. “Amaris this isn’t funny.” She moved towards the slave a little angrily now, “Amaris?” The Habiru was no longer looking at her. Tiye spun. The fishing boat had drawn up on the shingles before her pool. She paled as Old Solon jumped onto the shore, Shiri close behind.

The Habiru met her eyes with a look Tiye had never seen before. She seemed so pale, so frail, so empty. Her former bodyslave extended her arms wide and all at once was running to her. Tiye’s legs trembled at that embrace and before she ever heard her speak she knew. The whole world span as her mother sobbed just two words into her shoulder. Again and again she sobbed them, “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

Smenkaure found the Red Queen by the water’s edge. She seemed lost to dreams, unaware of his approach. Her pretty slave was at her side. The Habiru turned at the sound of his approach. He saw the revulsion in her eyes
. I’ll get that for ever more.
Half his face was one gigantic wound. From forehead to chin the traitor’s blade had cleaved deep. His right ear was lost, but that could not be seen for the bandages. At least both eyes were spared, a miracle if ever he’d known one. He marched stiffly forward and made a gesture with his left arm. The other was in a sling thanks to a mystery bowman. “Woman,” he said slowly and watched her turn, “I come at good King Amenophis’s bidding. You are prisoner of the Crown. Your bastard’s life is forfeit.”

Her eyes were red and puffy.
Had she been crying?
He could not be sure. She smiled at him, didn’t seem to notice his disfigurement. “There are no bastards here,” she said simply. “My boy is trueborn.”

“Your lies are at an end, Habiru.” He moved past her. Two more Companions made their presence felt. The first, very young and surly, the other was older and huge, almost a giant, with a great black beard. He had an apologetic look in his eyes. The young one grabbed Amaris and threw her to the ground. The beard politely requested that Tiye take his hand. She took it. Smenkaure looked up and down, left and right but saw no sign. “Where is he then? Where do you hide him?”

Tiye looked to the rising sun and her smile broadened. “The god of my father has delivered him from your hands,” she glanced to the Companion on her arm, placed a gentle hand atop his. “Take me to my husband. I have lies to expose,” she turned to Smenkaure with incredible coldness, “And men to break.”

Smenkaure grunted.
“Keep her there,” he moved closer. “Where’s the bastard?”

The Queen met his gaze without flinching. “I told you, I know of no bastards.”

“Do patient men have faces like this? Your son, Tuthmosis, where is he?”

Involuntarily her eyes flicked to the side. It was all he needed. He surged out into river. “There!” he shouted, “There! She tries to float him downriver in his carry basket!” He looked quickly about as if it may be some further deception but the Queen herself confirmed he’d found her runt. Her iron visage broke. She ran at him, “No!” she screamed, “No leave him be!” Her fists flew at him. With one arm he could barely fend her off. His vision blanked with excruciating pain as her nails raked his face. He stumbled and she made to press the attack. The beard grabbed her with firm gentleness and pulled her back.

“Take her to the Godking.” Smenkaure said through gritted teeth. She’d opened up the wounds and he was bleeding again. He turned to the other Companion. The man was attempting to pull Amaris’s skirts up about her waist and seemed to have little interest in the rest of the proceedings. Smenkaure glared at him, “Damn it, Natkhmin, leave the whore be. We’ve enough Habiru bastards to deal with already.” He jerked his head. “Now, with me!”

The young Companion sighed a little reluctantly before nodding and wading out into the waters. Smenkaure followed in his wake. The basket had only gotten a hundred paces before becoming entangled in the reeds. It would not take them more than a few minutes to reach it.

Tiye stood there a while gazing after them. She felt the giant touch her shoulder gingerly, “Begging your pardon, m’lady,” he could not meet her eye, “I … I’m sorry but … I must take you.”

XIX

She entered the hall with head held high, swift confident steps driving her forward. Her husband sat on his ebony throne, head in his hands, the
Uraeus
Crown lying discarded and impotent at his side. He was surrounded by the acolytes of
Amun
, the high priest of the order and first vizier to the throne at their head. They resembled a pack of determined hyenas circling a wounded lion.

She drew up before the throne and did not curtsy, kneel or bow. She looked at her husband with disdain, “A man who sits with his head in his hands while others slander his wife and seek to slay his son is no man at all.”

Amenophis raised red eyes. “You ... lied to me.”

Papis turned to her, a trium
phant smile contorting his face. “I thought,” said he, observing the discrete amethyst pendant around her neck, “That Habiru were forbidden from wearing jewellery.”

Tiye took a breath.
“So I’m told, but I think you’ll find your queen is not.”

“Queen?” he sneered.
“I see no queen here.”

She stepped towards him.
“Then you had best open your eyes, priest, for you gaze on Tiye, the Red Queen of Thebes. You gaze on the Beautiful One of Heliopolis, the Bringer of the Flood, mother to the trueborn heir of the
Uraeus
Crown. You gaze on the daughter of greatness; the murdered high priest of a mightier god than yours.” She glanced briefly at her husband and raised her voice. “You gaze on the first wife of Pharaoh, lord of the sky and all beneath.” She stepped closer still to the high priest of
Amun,
smiling now; a cold, menacing, terrible smile. “And I will see you kneel or I will see you die.”

Papis gulped and involuntarily dropped his gaze. He took an uneasy step backwards before spinning to P
haraoh plaintively. “She … she is the daughter of slaves, mother of bastards.”

Amenophis looked to him, his eyes full of pain. He shook his head and stared at his wife, a crumpled roll of papyrus in his hands. He unfolded it with trembling fingers and read it for what mu
st have been the hundredth time. “She says … she says you took a Habiru into your bed … your mother she … she is not your mother at all … she writes that you are bastard born. A bastard from a Habiru womb … I … I…”

Papis turned to the court raising his arms aloft, “The villainy of Heliopolis must be expunged. The Jealous God must be brought down or he will make war upon us all!”

Pharaoh fumbled for a mug of heady Theban
Shedeh
and took a long slow draft in an attempt to steady himself. When he spoke again his voice still sounded shaky, “When ... when men make war with gods there can be but one outcome.” He shook his head at the vizier. “I want no part of any moves against the Sun Temple.”

Papis frowned.
Same as his grandfather – a coward.
He gave him an encouraging glance, “Fear not, Divinity, ‘tis true that gods are more difficult to kill than men, but strike hard enough and they will die all the same. Let me send a detachment of Companions and burn it to the ground, let me hunt down the Jealous God’s followers so I may teach them the errors of their ways.”

Amenophis shook his head again, “No.” He found his wife’s eyes once more. His lip trembled.
So beautiful, so gorgeous even in her anger.
“Is … is it done? Is
your
son…”

She shot him the cold
est look. “Unless the One God has seen fit carry his basket to safety or strike down those that seek to do him harm
your
son is being murdered as we speak.”

“The bastard must die!” Papis repeated to the muted nodding of heads from his acolytes.

Tiye graced him with dismissive glance. “Is it Papis or Amenophis that rules here?” She stared back at Pharaoh, “It seems my husband sits an impotent throne. Need I say it again? The boy is yours – ours. Will you do nothing to protect him?”

“Listen not to her, Divinity,” the priest said, “her false god sprouts false words.”

The King buried his head in his hands, “He … he is not mine … your mother … or whatever she is to you, she-”

She shrieked in frustration. “Do you not hear me, fool? While you sit and wring your hands your men take their swords to his throat. Do you not care? Have you no strength at all?”

Amenophis looked at her, water in his eyes now, “But … but why would she lie? You betrayed me … lied to me.”

Tiye approached the throne and took the King’s hand, “
You’ve lost one wife already and now it seems you mean to lose another, and for what? I’ve told you no lies. Not once. Look into my eyes and see the truth in that. The boy is yours, I swear it. I swear it on his life. On his life, Amenophis! And I am no bastard,” she raised her head proudly. “I am the trueborn daughter of two whose love will echo through eternity.” She twisted her lip and drew back from him. “If that is not enough for you, then I spit on you and curse your throne.”

Amenophis’s breathing grew laboured, his fists clenched and unclenched. He looked to the priests, looked to the letter, looked to his wife.
Who tells it true?
He stared into those eyes just as she’d asked, stared and could not look away,
so pretty, so perfect, so strong … so true.
“My … my princess,” he said slowly, “my … queen.”

She saw something snap in him then, saw fear enter and fill his eyes. Sudd
enly, he jumped from the throne. “My son!” He surged forward, “Aker! Petemet! Fly! Fly! Save him! Save my boy before it’s too late! Salatis, Rahotep, with them now! Go! Go! Run! RUN!”

Tiye felt her husband’s hands on hers and then they were running, running for the great arched entrance to the hall. Four Companions tore past them, faster than Tiye could believe. Amenophis was screaming, crying, “Oh gods! Oh gods what have I done? What have I done?”

Before they made it a dozen steps
he
appeared in the archway in front of them, a sodden papyrus basket in his hand. When Amenophis saw it he howled and fell to all fours before him. Smenkaure took a knee and bowed his head, “I’m sorry, Divinity.”

Pharaoh clutched for his queen’s hand, buried his head into her side and sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The Beautiful One stood over him, absently stroking his hair. She looked towards the basket, met Smenkaure’s eye and broke into a toothy smile. She watched as the light of
Aton
shone through the archway and showed what the basket contained.

“I’m sorry,” Smenkaure repeated.
“I … I could not find him.”

Pharaoh raised his head. Tears had transformed the
kohl
about his eyes into black running streaks, “Could not … could not find him?”

The Companion stared at the Queen. “I don’t understand it. She must have hidden him somewhere in the
Water Gardens. I sent men to search, but as yet they’ve found nothing.”

Amenophis rose on shaky legs.
“NO! Call off the search! The boy is trueborn he is my son!”

Smenkaure shook his head.
“But Lord Yuya’s wife, she…”

“Call it off I say! Call it off at once!”

Smenkaure turned and nodded quickly to Natkhmin. The man ran to do Pharaoh’s bidding.

Tiye spoke to her husband, but her eyes did not once fall from Smenkaure’s. “This dog made to kill our son. This dog murdered my father.” She loosed her husband’s hand and moved forward, not stopping until she was nose to nose, eye to eye with the man. “And I will have my vengeance.” Neither flinched, neither looked away. The whole court faded before them.

Amenophis hesitated. Not once did his
ghaffir
turn from the Queen, but his words were for Pharaoh, “Your Grace, I’ve served you true, all was done by your command. All was done for the Two Lands,” he paused, “Perhaps … perhaps she bears no guilt for the murder of Amenhotep. I could find no certain proof. But her mother is most definitely Habiru, why would Lord Yuya’s wife lie?” He took a step towards, Tiye. They were all but touching now. “And I did not murder him. Twice I made to spare his life and twice he refused to kneel. He made the traitor’s choice and died for of it.”

“Some men’s knees are stiffer than others. Isn’t that so, Papis?” The Queen looked over her shoulder to where the high priest was stealthy attempting to extricate himself from the hall.” She turned back to the
ghaffir.
I give you the same choice you gave my father then. “Kneel before his daughter or die by her hand.” She looked over her shoulder again, “That goes for you too, priest.”

Papis’s knees proved very flexible. At once, he went down, his lips all but kissing the floor. Smenkaure rolled his tongue inside his mouth, met her eye again, and spat a phlegmy wad on the floor at her feet. His cheek cracked and oozed as he
broke into a challenging smile. “Let’s see you do it then, and pray your blade is keener than your father’s.”

The Queen followed the spittle with her eyes, her face a mask. She drew a knife from somewhere inside her robes, tested the edge on her thumb and looked at him again. Quick as lightening it was at his throat. She pressed it against his flesh until she saw the first trickle of blood. The man’s expression did not change.

A moment, the Queen held it there, his life in her hands. Before slowly she shook her head, “No, I am not like you.” She withdrew a step and returned her knife to its hidden berth, before glancing to the empty basket one more time. And then she smiled. “I hear the Wildlands are nice this time of year,” she shrugged. “Why don’t you go there and see for yourself? You are banished from the Two Lands, under pain of death, your lands and titles forfeit to the Crown.”

S
menkaure made no effort to move. “Only Pharaoh can give such commands,” he said without undue fear. He looked to his king.

Amenophis failed to meet his gaze. He stared to either side, two lines of Companions extended all along the hall waiting on his word. “The … the Red Queen has spoken,” he said quietly. He turned from his
ghaffir
without another glance.

Three men came at Smenkaure two in front, one behind. For a moment, his hand edged towards his sword. And then, he paused and curled his lip. The Queen had already turned away. He bowed to her back and smiled at the Companion
who took him roughly by the arm. “Remember this day,” he told the man, “such is the reward for loyalty when a tainted king bears the crown.”

Amenophis reached for his queen’s hand. This time she shrugged him off. The look she gave him was positively arctic. The disappointment in her eyes a thing half alive. They seemed to speak to him, seemed to say ‘
you are not worthy.’
He shrunk from it half resembling a scolded child. “He lives doesn’t he? How did you do it? Where is he? What strange miracle got him to safety?”

Still she held that cold hard stare and Pharaoh saw there was something missing.
The love … is it … is it gone? Or is it simply hidden?

“You need a Co-Regent to rule the north until your trueborn son comes of age.” She said authoritatively, “You have one now.”

Papis raised his eyes from the floor. He looked to his king, shock etched on his face. “But … but she can’t mean … she means to be Co-Regent?! But she’s a … she’s a woman!” He turned to her, “You’re a woman!”

She smiled at the
high priest. “Your powers of observation grow more astounding by the minute, Papis. Belike soon enough you’ll see the nose before your face.” She turned back to her husband, “With men such as this to guide you I can see I’m not needed here. You will give me the authority of the Red Deshret Crown. And I will use it to rule the north and protect our son, since none I see before me now is able to.” She stared directly at him as she said it.

He gulped.
“Such a thing … not since Hatshepsut … my grandfather would not…” he bit his lip, looked at her and nodded vaguely. “And you will come back to Thebes … to me soon? I … I need you, Tiye.” He reached for her.

Again she pulled away.
“I will return when I see fit, not before.”

He sighed and bowed in one.
“If that is your wish … my queen.”

She glared at him until Pharaoh was forced to drop his gaze. “The Red Queen does not wish, Amenophis. The Red Queen commands.”